


In the Shadows I Hide

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Also lots of Petyr being hella shady, And death in much later ones, Attempted rape in an early chapter, Dystopian, F/M, Just to give you an idea of what's going on, Loss of Memory, Magic and crazy shit, NOTE: on mini-hiatus, Slow Burn (I guess??), Tbh anything I write is a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8714842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: A girl on the run from a mad queen's desire to use her - or kill her. A man with far too many secrets and a knack for convincing people to do exactly what he wants. With untapped power coursing through her veins, the girl will come face to face with her past. Even if she doesn't remember it.NOTE: on mini-hiatus.





	1. { i }

**Author's Note:**

> [New story!! :D (I started plotting this one back in August (lol), and thought to write it for NaNo. Last day of November and I'm just publishing chapter 1 oops.)  
> Buckle up 'cause there's gonna be so much shit and drama going on. Here's hoping y'all enjoy this crazy fic! As always, let me know what you think (and much love to you for reading it!)]

            Warning sirens tore through the fragile air. Animals once asleep screeched as they tore through the streets. Paws thumping and wings fluttering fast away from the alarms. Even on the outskirts of the once-bustling city – where humans lie awaiting their final slumber - the commotion twenty feet beneath the earth bellowed and roared.

            Splinters of glass clung to the soles of the girl’s feet and hands. They pressed further in as she tried to stand, streaks of blood mixing with the filth on her skin. Her body was so _weak_. So filled with that calm embrace flooding her veins, whispering to her limbs to _stop_ and to her mind _this is futile_. And oh how she wanted to give in to it and just stop. To allow the drugs to take her away.       

            But she didn’t.

            Every part of her body was on fire. Skin was screaming for the pain to leave – the glass and the sirens and the bruises and the chemicals. Brain was screaming for the loss of things she knew she once held dear. She couldn’t remember their names or their faces. Couldn’t even remember the wide fields she grew up in. But she could feel that stinging pain in her chest at losing them forever.

            It was all too much. Everything. Pressing down and compressing her fragile body towards the filthy floor. How quickly all of the pain would vanish if she stayed and let them take her away from this world, too.

            Slowly, with aching limbs, she rose.

            Alarms bellowed from every corner in the room, lights strobing to the beat of that terrible, high-pitched siren. It sent the chemicals in her veins into a violent rage. _Obey and let them take care of you_ the warm embrace was whispering to her now. She could feel its arms wrapping around her chest. She could see it in the grey tendrils floating at the edge of her vision. _Stay_.

            Her head was pounding – it hurt worse than the glass tearing her skin. The throbbing was a combination of the pain and the fear and the drugs coursing through her body. And the slamming of boots down down down towards her.

            She had to move. _Now_.

            Her feet collected shards of glass and human refuse and blood – leaving her own smear of crimson, too – as she forced her body to move away from the sound of thrumming feet and shouting. They sounded so close now. She wanted to look back. Good gods, how she wanted to look back – at all of the people she was abandoning. All of the people who wouldn’t survive this night _because of her_.

            But she had to go on. There was another voice in her head beneath the soft cadence of the drug insisting her to _stop moving_. Another voice that blurred into the sirens and shouting and stomping and screaming. This one was telling her to _run_.

            She could come back for them, she told herself. She could rescue them.

            Lies. Lies to soothe that aching stab in her chest. Lies to make her feet shuffle towards the back corner of the cramped room.

            She managed to step around bodies – alive and dead, most somewhere in the middle. They didn’t move regardless of their state. All of them were filled with that numbing, complacent drug. They couldn’t move no matter how much their minds yelled their arms and legs to work.

            They stared at her with wide, vacant eyes.

            _Save us,_ they were crying with their stares.

            _Please_.

            _Don’t let us die._

            She made it to the end of the room when the pounding of boots stopped outside. Shouting – lots of shouting, incoherent sentences beneath the din of the sirens. All she could hear was _kill_.

            She dropped down, knees splashing in the pool of waste and blood. Perhaps if her mind was with her, she might have been disgusted at what swirled across her feet and shins. Perhaps. But she couldn’t feel the disgust underneath that other, incessant voice: _Run. Run and survive_.

            Fingers fished in the filth. The room was dim. The edges of her vision were swimming grey from the drug. Her brain was fuzzy. Still she dug, searching, fumbling for the edge-

            There.

            The door slammed open.

            The girl shifted her broken fingernails in the small gap between the floor and the edge of the grate. It didn’t budge at first. Her arms were fighting against her. They burned.

            Screaming.

            So much screaming behind her. So much pain. It all faded into the background along with the bellowing siren and the flashing light. The edges of her vision turned a softer grey.

            The burning in her arms dissipated. Slowly, so painfully slowly, the girl pried the grate from its indent in the floor. She snuck her fingers beneath the cold metal, feeling the filth about her knees sneak into the opening.

            Someone’s scream was cut short as she heard the head explode against a wall.

            Still she pulled. Using her legs now. She could feel her heart pounding faster, feel the ache in her arms and legs as the grate inched higher.

            A body landed beside her. There was a gaping hole where the stomach should have been – where the stomach was _torn_ as if by an animal’s jaw. Blood mixed with the waste at her feet, swirling around her fingers.

            There. She manueavered the heavy metal onto the floor’s edge. It _screeeeech_ ed as she shoved it further across the floor. Heavy, so heavy. Agonizing seconds passed before the hole was large enough for her thin frame.

            Another body soared above her head. Cracked against the wall, slumped to the floor. So much blood and guts.

            A shadow engulfed her.

            She turned.

            A man stood above her, less than an arm’s length away. His body was poised, muscles tense. Hands stretched towards her as if to grab. Hands with fingers tipped in terribly sharp claws, drops of crimson and flesh falling to the floor. Hands prepared to throw her like so many others. To have her brains paint the walls in faded pink and grey.

            But he stood there. Beneath the shadow that encased him, she saw the pained expression on his mutilated face. Anger _._ Confusion. His fingers twitched against an invisible restraint. A low snarl escaped his lips.

            It followed her as she fell down the hole.

            She fell on her hands and knees. Her face was inches from the foul refuse that had been piling for weeks, months, _years_. She managed to realize it then – the creep of grey was growing fainter. But this wasn’t: the filth, the disgust of what she was covered in. That rising disgust forced her stomach to add bile into the waste. When she went to wipe the acrid taste from around her mouth, she forgot about how the filth soaked deep into her fingers. She threw up again.

            When she glanced up, that man was still there. Crouched before the hole, staring at her. He could fit through. All he needed was to push the grate away. Jump down. Follow her. Kill her.

            She ran.

            She tried not to think on the waste she was kicking through. Tried not to think on how it rose halfway high on her shins. Tried not to think if the echoes in the tunnel were of her own breathing and her own feet, or of someone else’s.

            Tried not to think – but she couldn’t.

            It felt _wrong_. That warm coil of drug was fading from her veins, releasing her limbs and mind. Grey still lingered in her vision, but it was barely an echo now of what she knew it could do. The embrace telling her to _stay_ and wait for death faded against the walls.

            Louder was that other voice: _run run run_.

            She did.

            Through the winding tunnel of the sewers she ran, nearly tripping over that grey numbness in her body that hadn’t gone entirely. Nearly throwing up each time her face fell inches from human waste.

            On and on she moved. The clamor of noise above never seemed to die down. She wasn’t sure if it was only the sirens she heard, or also the screams of the dying.

            She should be there with them. Not here. Not _alive_.

            Finally she made it to the exit, her lungs burning. Large metal pipes were set into the opening – as if in preparation for someone like _her_ to blindly wander in an escape _._ But they were in disrepair. One pipe had bent halfway, probably from an animal. Others were rusted and worn from the refuse. Each of them was set apart at a distance too narrow for a typical human. For someone well fed.

            Not for someone where bones threatened to break skin.

            She only gave herself a moment’s rest before sneaking between the pipes. She kept on running.

            It was dark. The moon was hardly a sliver of white in the sky. Stars dotted the black, shapes and names that she was sure she once memorized long ago. Perhaps in her old life, she might have known which stars to follow to lead her way home. Perhaps long ago, she knew the streets and the name of the city.

            But she didn’t know where she was. Where home was.

            Nothing came to her mind but the slinking fog of grey.

            Everything was a blur. The creeping feeling of _once knowing_ was always tugging at the back of her head. That all those names and faces and facts and knowledge she once filled her head with – _gone_.

            She picked the brightest star, and ran towards it.

            The alarms followed her as she moved through the streets. A never-ending shout for her to come back. Worse was the creeping fear that she was being followed by more than moonlight and sound.

            The streets were empty of animal and people. Or, empty of animal and people that were _alive_. Bodies torn and jagged slumped against the walls and in the streets. She was finally thankful of the moon’s dearth – she wasn’t sure she would be able to stomach so much more _death_.

            Where the buildings crowded against each other, she thought she could hear the echo of her own breath bounce off the walls. Once, she thought she heard the flutter of a bird.

            That fire that had kept her body on the move was flickering. She could feel it begin to be overtaken again by the calming grey of the drugs. She thought she heard its voice return, louder, mixing with the pounding blood in her head. Fingers of cold crept up her arms, resting on her shoulders, urging her down with promises that _it will all be over soon if you just stop_.

            _Run_.

            _Stay, stop, and you won’t be afraid again_.

            _Run and keep on running and don’t look back_.

            She tried. A half-jog, a limping sort of a run through the winding streets.

            The girl was tempted to glance over her shoulder, but she didn’t. She didn’t want to see what the shadow that followed her looked like.

            Somewhere along the way she felt the stinging of glass in her feet again. They dug painfully with each step. She glanced down and saw how her footprints glimmered faintly in the moonlight.

            But it helped keep that pestering voice at bay. _Remember_. If she could remember, she wouldn’t fall prey to the calming voice. So she stared at the shards, and remembered. Remembered how it shattered. Remembered how it felt when they crumbled and fell around her – almost like the soft kiss of snow. Then the sirens started.

            There was something else about this night. Something _important_ , something just on the edge of her memory.

            So many things sat there on the edge, waiting for her to remember them. Reaching out with desperate arms. Yelling at her with their stories and names – but all she heard was warble of noises in her head.

            _Run_.

            That voice didn’t fade into an echo. It spoke in her ear, clear and sharp. _Run and survive_. There was something else to it, she was sure. More than those words. But like the memories, the rest just wouldn’t come.

            Something slammed into her.

            She flew through the air. Collided with a wall. Slid down.

            The grey buzz came back in full force. Things moved in her vision. Things made noises – voices? growls? She couldn’t tell. Everything was growing fainter, darker. She tried to swallow the uncertainty and fear, but all she tasted was blood coating a dry tongue.

            Her head was pounding.

            She tried to move, to lift herself up. To _run_. That voice was fading, too.

            The fire was gone now.

            She thought how comfortable it was, lying on the cobbled street. Her body was against cold stone. Her arms were somewhere, her legs somewhere else. Were they attached to her? Maybe. Where was her head?

            Something cold and heavy and hard clamped at her wrist. The other. Her body was lifted from those welcoming stones, propped against the wall. She thought she felt the wet stain of her blood against the rough stucco – and her brain? She couldn’t be sure.

            The things were still making noises. They still held onto her wrists, and there was another digging into her hair. Her head lifted, but she couldn’t see anything. Indeterminate shadows of grey stood before her, making noises between each other. Off in the distance, she could still hear the sirens.

            _Don’t move – it will all be over soon_. The greyness was so soothing. It swam in her mind and through her veins. She wondered if it would wrap her completely in its gentle embrace if she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

            The thing on her face dug into her skin. Something at her neck – digging further in until it scraped bone. The pain jerked her away from the grey. She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything.

            Panic started to poison the calm.

            Hideous sounds – laughter?

            Sounds: sirens, laughter, fear, running.

            She couldn’t tell them apart. The sounds, the feelings, the memories. Grey – it was all grey.

            Another shape floated in front of her. Not quite so grey. Faded red and white and black. There was a face attached, probably, but nothing on it made sense.

            The shape approached, rose a hand towards her. Placed at the center of her chest.

            Pain shot through her body. It felt like razors digging from beneath her skin. Like a feral beast unleashed within her, tearing at the veins and engorging itself on her blood and bone. She couldn’t tell where it was. Everywhere. Nowhere. He body wanted to shrivel and collapse.

            Another noise tore through the night. Not the sirens or the laughter or – she realized – her own screams.

            The press on her chest stopped. Then her wrists. She fell to the floor.

            That beast still clawed within her. A trapped animal, slashing and tearing at everything for escape. And then – the pain stopped. Not as if the beast grew tired. No, as if the beast was shot.

            She felt the whimpering cry as much as she heard it.

            She tried to see what was happening. She couldn’t tell if she was still awake, or had finally succumbed to that cold, grey embrace.

            The world blurred beneath her tears.

            There were screams. So many screams, as though they were always there and always would be.

            And then: silence.

            She heard her breathes, heard her sobs.

            Her body felt weightless.

            Her body felt like the entire earth was held up above her chest. She couldn’t move.

            Something soft pressed at her shoulder. It moved her, urging her body to stay alert. Urging her body to not embrace all of the grey that swallowed her vision and began filling up her veins in lieu of the blood. It would be better though, wouldn’t it? To let it end her now. When she couldn’t remember and didn’t want to.

            Still it persisted. That press, that _urging_. Something else – something so gentle - wiped her hair and tears and blood and filth from her face.

            It was saying something.

            She couldn’t hear it over the buzzing silence.

            She forced her ears to listen. To try and understand that single word whispered and yelled and muttered and shouted at her. It wriggled through the fog as a mess of sounds.

            The girl couldn’t decode the sounds. But she knew it. Once. The shadow of the girl she once was knew that word, she was sure. Knew that somewhere inside her was a hidden memory clawing its way from the depth of her brain. Fighting against the waves of grey pouring in and drowning her memories.

            She wanted to cling to that voice. To the press against her shoulder. To anchor herself in reality.

            But it was so difficult. That soft, warm embrace was tugging her further and further down in the endless sea of the unknown.

            She closed her eyes.

            And somewhere - under the incessant buzzing of sounds; away from the pain ripping at her muscles and bone; and beneath all that infinite _grey_ \- she thought she remembered what the word was.

            Her name.


	2. { ii }

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TW for attempted rape in this chapter.  
> Thanks for everyone who's read and commented so far! We've still got a long way to go for this fic though, and I really hope y'all enjoy all the fun twists and turns I've got planned. (Speaking of plans, it's only chapter 2 and I've already thrown a fun curveball at my original plot oops).  
> Anywho, enjoy, and let me know what you think!]

 

            _Brown and green and blue and **white**. So much white. Soft fields of white beneath her feet; drops of white floating lazily from the sky. They clung to her hair, to her clothes. They left soft pecks of cold across her skin. She once marveled on the way the white made everything clean and pure._

_The way the white was in such contrast to all the **red**._

_There was screaming. Hers. Other peoples’. So much of it – echoing through the halls and out amongst the trees._

_She tried to run towards them. To save them._

_Something was holding her back. Wrapped about her limbs in an unyielding embrace. And there was something else, something holding her back deep inside her, stifling that wild **buzz** swimming in her veins. She used to love that feeling: how it coursed and flowed and existed, untamed and wild. Now there wasn’t a spark of that energy in her._

_She could hardly feel her fingers anymore. Her body grow heavy, limp. The hands that held her down loosened their iron hold - because they knew she couldn’t fight back anymore._

_That bright stain of red across the white ground was blurring. The buildings, the trees, the people – it was all becoming muted._

_Grey._

_She strained her eyes past the numbness filling her veins. Tried to look past the grey and the tears that were hot against her cheeks._

_Bodies lay strewn across the field. Some with heads attached, others missing limbs. A few were left as nothing but wispy smolders against charcoaled-grass._

_But she stared at the heads. At the faces tortured and torn and staining the ground red. She tried to focus on them. On their lifeless eyes and their tilted mouths torn open in frozen screams._

_All she saw were muddied shapes where their faces were._

_Her screams were dying. She was sobbing over people she didn’t know, she **couldn’t remember**. Not anymore. _

_The grey consumed her._

* * *

            When she awoke, she was sure she would see them again. Those people lying dead, strewn across the snow-covered grass. In her mind, she was sure their arms were stretching towards her – grasping for their last shred of _hope_ that remained. Or perhaps they were grasping towards her in a plea for the pain to stop.

            But here she was. Awake. Alone.

            The girl sat up, slowly, groaning at the endless soreness that crept within her body and across her brain. Her gaze fell on nothing in particular. Her body barely registered the softness she sat upon, the warmth in the room seeping into her frozen bones.

            With aching arms, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, pressing as hard as possible. Trying with all her might to forget.

            No, not _forget_.

            She didn’t want to forget any more than she already had. What she would give to remember anything. Everything. Those faces crying out for help. Their names. The city she saw covered in snow and blood.

            Who she was.

            Yes, she was dying to remember. But she wanted to forget just as much, too. The pain and the tears and that terrible ache in her chest. Wanted that nameless shadow scratching with jagged claws at her bones and veins and heart – wanted it _out_.

            The girl set her hands back down onto her lap. Abstract shapes of light played in her vision. They could very well have been spelling out her past. Transforming themselves into the blurred faces of family and friends. And just as quickly as they appeared and shifted, they faded into the background.

            The room she sat in was small, plain. Faded brown paint chipped at edges. Intricate spiders’ web hung in the corners. The floor was carpeted, and the scant furniture was well-worn. A play of shadowed streaks danced on the walls with the sunlight filtering in through a curtained window. From it, she felt the faintest draft.

            She watched the shadows move along the wall, moving in an impromptu dance with the light peaking in through holes of the fabric. A harmony of their own, moving to music she couldn’t hear. She had forgotten how beautiful sunlight was, even if through a curtain.

            She made to part the curtain – to remember how the sun looked in the sky. To see if the blanket of blue still loomed above.

            Instead she fell; the tangle of sheets followed her to the floor.

            A dull ache shot throughout her body. At first she meant to stand again, but that painful ache persisted. She resigned to sitting against the edge of the bed.

            The girl wrapped the sheet around her shoulders, savoring the warmth. She was cold, she realized. Freezing. Not from the draft or from the weather – was it winter? Spring? Did the seasons still shift while she was gone?

            How much of the world _changed_ since she last saw it? Since she could last remember it?

            A chill flowed through her again. The shadowed beast rumbled inside her, from toes to chest to fingers to head. One at a time, and all at once. It was _hungry_ for something, she thought. Hungry for the memories it once indulged in, but now was permanently _starved_. Hungry for attention. In its denial, the beast tore through her body, angry and ravenous and unrelenting.

            She sat and shook, staring at the sunlight just out of her reach.

* * *

            A _knock_ ing awoke her.

            For a moment, she thought it was in her mind. The knocking was just another attack by the greying shadow lurking within her. Playing with her. Allowing her the briefest moment of respite before forcing her alert.

            She wasn’t sure how long she had slept. The sunlight fell across the floor and wall in a different pattern. Further away than before. She watched them crawl across the carpet.

            Another series of knocks.

            The girl stood on wobbly legs. She thought they hadn’t hurt as much this time – only the fuzzy pinpricks of having fallen asleep on them.

            But the shaking hadn’t gone. Neither had the dull throbbing in her head. A part of her wanted to rip her brain out to make the aching stop.

            She moved towards the door slowly, guiding her way with a hand on the wall. Her breath came out in labored puffs. By the time she reached the door, she had to prop herself against it to keep from falling. By the time she reached the door, the throbbing in her head stopped just enough for the _panic_ to set in.

            Her fingers froze on the lock.

            _How did they find me_ , was the first thought in her head. Then: _what are they going to do to me_?

            There was always _punishment_ , she remembered. For stepping out of line. For not being what they wanted. For any and every little thing that made her _her_ , and not the shell they sought her to be.

            She remembered the feel of grey pressing down on her during her escape. Remembered the pain that coursed through her body. Remembered the siren’s wailing and the echoes of screaming and the sounds of bodies torn apart or smashed against the stones.

            The shaking grew worse. She fell against the door, legs incapable of holding her aloft. Her lungs couldn’t work fast enough. The door and walls were shifting in her vision, moving further away. Ice exploded in her veins, from her fingers and up through her arms.

            _How are they going to kill me_?

            More knocking. She thought it sounded louder, _angrier_.

            She turned and looked through the room. Looked for something that could be a _weapon_. There wasn’t much. Nothing useful.

            Nothing she could use to protect herself. Or to make sure they didn’t take her alive. She knew she wasn’t going back.

            “Are you alright in there?”

            The voice tore through her thoughts.

            It was… Soft? Kind? There was a word for the voice, for how it was meant to come across not as something hurtful or rude. She hadn’t heard that tone in so long she wasn’t sure she could remember how to describe it.

            But it gave her pause.

            Certainly if they meant to drag her back to that terrible room and do those terrible _things_ , they wouldn’t have asked if she was ‘alright’. Would they? Maybe. Luring her into a false embrace, much like that drug that they always pumped into their veins. A soft grey of complacency.

            “I’ve brought supplies,” the voice said.

            Supplies meant to torture and maim, she imagined. Supplies to harm, to force her back into that hell.

            “And food, if you’re hungry.”

            Food filled with drugs or poison.

            “And some clothes.”

            Clothes to restrain. An image of pristine white jackets with belts and buckles flashed in her mind. She had never seen one, or been in one. Not that she remembered.

            Through the door, she heard a _thunk_. A pause, filled only with the heavy sounds of her breathing and the faint whistle of the draft. She pressed further against the door. Trying to see through it – trying to imagine who the person was and what the noise had been.

            The soft silence filled her ears.

            Bracing herself, she moved as quietly as possible towards the window. It was only a few feet away, but the motion was glacial, painful. When she managed to part the edge of the curtain – just the edge, just the smallest crack to peek outside – the flood of light sent the throbbing in her head to a new level. Her eyes stung. Still, she looked past it, determined.

            Nobody was there.

            She hadn’t heard their footsteps leave. Maybe her mountainous trek to the window had taken too much energy to notice when the person had left.

            Perhaps no one had even been there. Perhaps the throbbing in her head - and the monster slinking within her veins - had set the unknown voice crawling in through the door.

            It wouldn’t be the first time her own brain damned her.

            But – _there_. From her sharp view of outside, she could make out the shapeless form of _something_ sitting just outside her door.

            A trap, whispered the voice.

            The girl moved back to the door, wincing as her foot caught on a nail in the floorboard. She ignored the thin well of blood on her skin.

            The door opened with a whining _creak_.

            A bag. Black, lumpy, set up against the jamb. As though the person, whoever they might have been, intended for the bag to not be noticed.

            She peered down the hall; left, right. Nobody and nothing.

            With much effort, the girl managed to bring the bag into her room, shut the door, and set it atop her bed, before collapsing beside it.

            Her body was so _tired_. Cold. And shaking. And aching. She felt the thrumming of her heart in her head as she lay there, staring at the bag. She blinked.

            When her eyes opened, the room had the orange hue of dusk. At some point she must have drifted off again. The sunlight against the wall had finished its dance long ago.

            Her fingers fumbled with the strap of the bag. They felt frozen – stiff and clumsy. And trembling. She wasn’t sure how she managed to set the bag open.

            Supplies, food, and clothes. Just as the person said.

            Whatever logical part of her brain remained free of the monster’s grasp sighed in relief that the bag had not been a trap. That part then scolded her for not checking for traps on the bag, for opening it so blindly.

            She fished the items out, sorting them atop the bed.

            Basic foodstuffs: water, fruit, granola bars, a chunk of bread. Typical clothes: outerclothes, underclothes, boots, and jacket.

            The _supplies_ were stranger things. A blanket, flashlight, bar of soap, an empty heavy-duty canteen, and a pocket knife. Perhaps not strange – but not at all what she had been expecting. As though the unknown person had planned to take her on a leisurely hike rather than… whatever they intended.

            There was also a simple pair of scissors set in a pouch. The blades were long and sharp – not normal scissors. She thought she had seen a pair of these before, had seen them used, but couldn’t recall.

            As she sat, staring at her _gifts_ , she realized how unclean she was.

            Her own clothes were dirty, torn and thin – caked in dirt and blood and waste (all of which was a combination of her own and other peoples’). At that thought she remembered moving the grate and falling down the hole. Remembered the filth she fell into. The filth she stumbled through for an hour.

            It was a miracle she didn’t throw up at the memory. But her body was prepared to, even without anything in her stomach.

            The girl looked at her hands, her feet. Filth caked under her nails. Blood and waste embedded itself deep into her skin. She could only imagine what she _smelled_ like – and then tried her best not to.

            She moved to grab the bar of soap, fiddling with it in her hands. Flipping it around and around. It was as long as her fingers, and smelled clean. A hint of citrus, perhaps.

            On to the other side of the small room she could see a bathroom. With reluctance from her own body, the girl made it to the bathroom and the small shower. She shooed away a family of spiders before stripping and stepping in.

            The water was cold, even set to its hottest. She stood there for a few minutes, staring at the layers and layers of filth that ran down her skin and into the drain. The layers mixed into a single, muddied color.

            She ran the soap across her hands, arms, shoulders. Up from feet, legs, stomach. Again. And again.

            She lathered the soap into her hands and ran it into her hair. It took several long tries before her fingers were able to comb the soap through in a single motion – an endless supply of knots and tangles and more filth. The water was black when she wrung her hair.

            The white bar grew grimy and dark with each pass over her skin. And smaller – it was barely half the size when she finished.

            She stood there, mostly clean, letting the water run down her numb body. She tried not to focus on her skin, on how the joints pressed against her flesh. On how _little_ of her there was. She tried not to count how many bruises and scars littered her flesh – she had started, but lost count after fifty. The girl curled her hand around her thin wrist, remembering the stone grip around it. Her fingers mimicked the bruised spots, pressing against them until she thought her frail bone would break. She let go.

            She trailed over the endless markings covering her pale skin. None of the scars looked infected. None of them were oozing puss, none of them wore angry rings of red or purple or green. She had tried to lift her feet, to see her soles – where the glass cut and stuck into her flesh – but she tripped and slid down the tiles.

            There were so many reasons why she should be dead. And yet, here she stood. Alive.

            The towel scratched at her skin. She enjoyed the feel – the slight burn of the material, warming her from the frigid water.

            There wasn’t a mirror, and a part of her was glad. She vaguely remembered what she used to look like. _Pretty_. People used to always call her pretty. She didn’t want to erase the image of the girl in her head with the horrid copy of a girl who stared back at her.

            The girl collapsed on the bed again. She gathered the sheet and the threadbare comforter, wrapping herself up. But the heat was measly compared to the chill that ran deeper than the water across her skin or soaking her hair.

            She was still shaking - teeth chattering, brain throbbing – when she drifted off again.

* * *

            The girl stood before the door, hand resting on the handle. The bag sat on her shoulders, supplies repacked. The new clothes fit loosely over her thin frame – as if they _would have_ fit, had she been more than skin and bones. She tied back her dark hair, still damp from yesterday. She’d had a nibble of an apple, but couldn’t manage to stomach more than a quarter of it. Her body wasn’t used to eating that much food.

            The shaking had lessened over the night. So had the incessant pounding in her head. The monster still lurked, threaded between the bones of her ribcage. It sat, waiting, ravenous. She wondered if it would ever leave completely, or if the beast was only another part of her.

            Unfortunately, her memories hadn’t magically returned. Nothing came back to her - only the realization that there was a lot more that she forgot than she thought.

            Maybe there was a reason, deeper than the drugs and the beast, why she couldn’t remember.

            Maybe it was better that she didn’t.

            With a sigh, the girl pushed the handle down, and left.

            The air was brisk, the sun warm when it fell on her skin. She stood, staring upwards at the sky, allowing the heat and the light to soak into her cheeks and hands.

            In that single minute she stood there, the sun embraced her more than in the past weeks. Months? _Years_? A long, long time, she was sure.

            She moved out of the complex – a small building, two-stories, with rows of rooms on each floor. It seemed empty and sad. A part of her thought she was the only visitor. The first one in forever. Her room had been on the first floor, in the corner, furthest from any _prying_ eyes. There weren’t any eyes to pry on her now, none that she could see.

            The girl walked through the streets, taking slow steps. She avoided leaning on walls, trying her best not to let that aching beast pull her limbs to the ground.

            She was better today. But not great. Every building or two she would rest by staring at it, or staring around, as though admiring the view and the city. It was small and shabby, without a proper road running through it. Most of the buildings still stood, with visible wear on their fronts. She could see the small shapes of buildings out in the distance, past the main thoroughfare. Farms, perhaps.

            It wasn’t the city she ran through the night of her escape.

            Looking up at the sky again, she tried to think on how much time she spent wandering the streets. An hour, two. It was still early in the day. She was leaning against a building, glancing around the city from one side to the other. And thinking.

            _What was she supposed to do_?

            Run. And keep on running. _They_ were after her; they had to be. Even if she managed to miraculously escape again, even if she wasn’t sure _how_ the guards hadn’t killed her – they would be after her.

            _Where was she supposed to go_?

            That was the worse question, because she honestly had no clue. She didn’t even know _where_ she was, let alone where she was meant to go. Where she could run to and be _safe_.

            _Who was she_?

            She paused on that. It was _there_ , on the edge of her brain and tongue. A formless shape, reaching out towards her. It was less fuzzy today – her whole being was less blurred, less _grey_. She held on to the hope that once whatever drug or poison was out of her system, the memories might resurface. It was the only hope she had left.

            A woman passed her. They said nothing to one another, only giving each other a simple glance. The girl thought there was something flittering on the woman’s face – concern? fear? Something not kind.

            It was incredibly frustrating, not knowing what all of those _somethings_ added up to.

            If she were dead, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about those somethings.

            She looked up at the sky again. The sun was just beginning to fall towards the farms. It would be hours before it kissed the earth.

            North.

            She couldn’t say why that direction resonated with her. Or why she turned her attention past the buildings towards where north would be. _She_ would be there – her past self, her memories. A thin thread twisted in her mind, a fragile thing that was sure to break at the smallest of touches. But that thread tied itself to her, and ran up across the shapeless map in her mind. Running north.

            It was a start.

            The girl took her first, shaky step towards the north. Another. Her body wobbled on its way across the dirt street. She made careful avoidance of the animals loitering through the city, and even further avoidance of the people.

            She didn’t fail to notice how some of the citizens didn’t move.

            She also didn’t fail to notice how the citizens that could move made their own wide movements away from her. Staring at her with wide, uncertain eyes. As though she were infected.

            The girl tried to ignore them. She could feel their stares, boring into her back, into her head. Could hear the murmuring whispers mix with that ever-present voice in her head.

            Perhaps she should have waited longer. Rested and  healed and waited, in the safety of that room.

            She forced herself to think on anything _but_ the looks and stares and mumbled words. To think on how her body was healing, but not quite healed yet. To think on how she couldn’t feel the jagged press of glass into her feet – not even their ghosts, as her feet shifted inside the too-big boots.

            To think on the person that gave her them. On who they were. Why they bothered to _help_ someone like her.

            Someone like her wasn’t deserving of help.

            Her body slammed into a wall.

            She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see through the blurred vision or through the pounding in her head.

            “Here’s the bitch,” a voice said, close to her face. Spittle fell across her forehead.

            Her vision cleared enough to see three shapes: three men, much larger than her, standing tall and proud. The one who spoke pinned her to the wall with a hand around her neck.

            The hand was rough and cold. Like a stone.

            Another man spoke: “They said we ought to take the bitch in alive, though.”

            The first man replied with a terrible sneer coating chapped lips. “Yeah, you’re right. But I’m sure we could have a bit of _fun_ as payment, don’t’cha think?”

            They all laughed. She felt it echo through the cold hand holding her.

            The girl darted her eyes around, looking for _someone_ to call for help. Looking for _anything_ to save her.

            In her mindless wandering, she had wound up in a dead-end alley. The closest person was thirty paces away – the woman from before - staring at her with a bored expression. The girl meant to call for her before they continued on their way. Still, she called for her.

            Another hand, rough across her mouth.

            “Shut the fuck up, bitch. Don’t fucking scream, or you’re gonna fucking wish for death.”

            The fingers around her neck tightened. She could feel her head lightening, could see the tinge of white creep in at the edges.

            Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as the other two approached. She felt the tears slide down her cheeks. Felt those stone-like hands reach for her wrists, her clothes.

            She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to _feel_. She couldn’t help the last bit – their hands and arms and faces were so rough and hard and demanding.

            The girl stared past their bodies. Towards the opposite wall, watching as the piles of trash and cluster of dead children trembled. The pain in her head was making the world shake beneath her, around her. The stones at her back and the stones grappling at her body rumbled. She forced her eyes shut.

            She was sure she heard that shadowed beast within her chest cackle.

            “Stop.”

            She thought it was her own voice. Or the echo of the voice inside her head. Gods knew she was _screaming_ it – screaming for everything to _stop stop stop_. They wouldn’t stop, knew, no matter how loud her protests were.

            But they _had_.

            The hand on her waist dug into her skin, but stopped moving. The sound of the man moving to unbuckle his pants stopped. The tears that fell unrestrained from her eyes didn’t.

            She opened her eyes.

            The three men were still above her, still in preparation for their well-deserved _payment_.

            But she saw – even without their hands or bodies moving – the _fear_ that coated their eyes. How the muscles in her faces tensed. How their fingers trembled.

            Then: footsteps.

            Slow, languid, _casual_.

            She tried to see the newcomer approach, but all she saw was the broad chests of the men meaning to _have their way_ with her.

            From behind them came the voice again. It was quiet. Yet its lilt demanded the listener to pay attention. “Step away from her. Now.”

            They did. One by one, the hands on her waist and wrist and neck and mouth left. The three men backed away in unison: one, two, three steps.

            One of them – the one whose fingers dug over her lips to silence her screams – moved to speak. “Why the fuck you stopping-”

            “Shut up,” the newcomer said. “All of you. Don’t move. Don’t make another sound.”

            The man’s jaw shut tight, almost painfully tight. She could see the muscles in his face feather, _fighting_ against an invisible restraint. His arms, too. All of them were shaking, muscles straining to do _something_.

            They stood there, not doing a thing.

            “Good. So much better when you kind shut the fuck up like you should.” The man approached them, hands in pockets.

            She couldn’t see him fully. Nothing about his face or voice or swagger lifted those heavy grey clouds lingering in her mind. Rather, the clouds felt to grow darker as she glanced across his features. The shadow of the beast inside her snarled.

            But his _voice_. He was the one yesterday who left the supplies. Who wondered if she had been _alright_.

            And here he was again. Stopping these men from assaulting her - with only his words.

            As if reading her thoughts, the corner of his lips tilted upwards. He paid her no attention however, continuing towards the men until he stood a foot from the supposed alpha. He leaned in closer to the brute, noses nearly touching.

            And the other man did nothing.

            He laughed, _scoffed_ at them. “So much for having thick skin.” He rose a hand and knocked on the man’s head. “Knock knock, anyone in there? No? Good.” He stepped away. “All of you: go find the ocean and see if you can touch the bottom.”

            She thought she saw their eyes shrink. But they moved, away from her and the man, out of the alley. They didn’t speak a word, didn’t move except to walk in unison.

            And then they were gone.

            She hadn’t realized she had fallen to the ground. Her throat burned from the grip. Here body felt _filthy_ – infinitely worse than when she was covered in blood and human refuse.

            She wanted to scrub her body. Tear her flesh off down to muscle and bone. And tear those off, too, until she was nothing left.

            The beast crawled back into her ribs. Waiting.

            After several long seconds staring at the entrance to the alley, she turned her attention to the new man.

            He was staring at her. His head was tilted, hands still in his pockets. There was something about the way his lips bent – not a smile, not a smirk.

            She sucked in air, feeling it burn on its way towards her lungs.

            The man righted his head. His eyes never fell from her – _inspecting_ her, she thought. Staring at what she was sure was a ring of new bruises across her neck. At the disheveled clothes they had started to remove. At the tears that streaked down her face. And then her eyes, which were surely as tired and red and terrified as she felt.

            He gave her a sort-of-smile, one that fell only on his lips. “Looks like I’ve saved your life twice now, Alayne.”

            She pressed back into the wall, confusion and fear coiling within her.

            Twice…

            Which could mean any sort of thing. _Saved her twice_? Did he mean saved her from being assaulted and from being sent back? Perhaps he meant saved her today and yesterday, with the bag of supplies. Or saved her by setting up the accommodations in that run-down hotel.

            Unless... Unless he was the one that set her up there.

            And if he was the one that had brought her to that hotel to rest, did he also arrange to have her healed? To have the shards of glass removed and the cuts fixed? But she was still wearing her clothes from the escape when she awoke. Still covered in shit.

            Her voice was frail, tired. She wasn’t sure it even made a sound. “What do you mean ‘twice’?”

            The man’s grin grew a fraction, as if her words were a joke. He scratched his jaw. “Twice. Two. I saved you just now from those damned Towers. And I saved you when those other men attacked you a few nights ago. You seem to collect trouble, no matter where you are.”

            So he _was_ there, during her escape.

            She remembered the night in greyed chunks. There were other men too – like these, with rough, heavy bodies. Had they the same intention as the men today?

            She blocked the thought from her mind.

            But… That left the _other_ bit of information that also didn’t sit right with her. She debated asking – she saw the patience on him, as though he had been expecting her to ask something else.

            “Who’s Alayne?”

            The man gave her an incredulous look. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

            She was about to say she wasn’t sure.

            She caught the question before it fell from her tongue.

            _Alayne_.

            It was a start.

            Perhaps it didn’t sit right because that damned cloud still clung to every inch of her mind. She had thought, had _hoped_ , that just knowing her name would have set the memories flooding back.

            They didn’t.

            Alayne moved to stand, using the wall for support. She could still feel the haze within her mind and her limbs, wondering if it would ever leave. Her body wanted to shake again, but she willed herself still.

            “Thank you. For saving me,” Alayne said. He gave her a curt nod. “And… And you are?”

            She saw his lips crack into a grin, wondering what _exactly_ would have caused the humor to spread across his face. This time, it was threatening to reach his eyes.

            And then – gone.

            A sort of _recognition_ shadowed his features. It crossed his eyes, softening them into something. Pity?

            “You can call me Petyr.”

            Another name. Another _hope_ of remembrance – dashed against the slick walls holding her up.

            Nothing. 

            If he knew her name and had bothered to save her – _twice_ , she reminded herself – then he should have been somewhere in the back of her mind. Under a dull cloud, reaching out into clarity. Still she waited for the a-ha moment, for the sudden flash of his face or name in her mind.

            Nothing.

            Alayne wasn’t so much angered at him, or at herself. She hated _grey_. Hated the fog that wove its way into her mind. What she would give to light a wildfire through her brain and set the shadowed memories alight.

            She felt the tears forming on the corners of her eyes. Forced them from falling. Petyr was still there, staring, _waiting_.

            “Thank you, Petyr,” Alayne said again. The tears were growing – gravity would pull them down soon. She shot her eyes from his face to his feet.

            He seemed to understand. Petyr ran his fingers through his dark hair, wrapping them down and around his neck before falling back into a pocket.

            Petyr began to leave. Alayne didn’t watch him, hardly even heard him. She stared at the shadow where he stood, felt the tears beginning their descent. She was consumed by her own greyed thoughts.

            Beneath the clamor in her mind, she heard his words: “You can join me, if you want, Alayne. But I’ll be leaving soon.” Petyr’s feet left quiet echoes across the alley.

            And then he was gone.


	3. { iii }

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I’m sooooo sorry I haven’t updated in forever!! :( I got carried away with finals and writing several oneshots. And then I got an internship which eats up so much of my time ugh. I’m gonna try and post more consistently, and the story is def picking up! (but thanks to work I can’t write at 3 in the morning anymore lol.)]

 

            It was several long minutes – five? ten? thirty?, she had lost count, though the sun still sat high in the sky – before Alayne found her body again. Her mind was a roiling sea clouded in grey, and she fought and fought against the clouds and the mist. Alayne would give anything to clear those damned skies. To slice even the smallest sliver of the grey fog into a vibrant, blinding blue.

            Her name should have done the trick. Wasn’t it meant to be a revelation? An opening of the gates that were damming all of her memories behind the grey?

            Yet, her name tasted the faintest bit like ash. Like it wasn’t the right shape of key to send the memories bursting free of the floodgates. Like it wasn’t the lifeboat in the sea to send her into blue.

            Like it just wasn’t _right_.

            Alayne leaned against the wall, the cold stones sapping away at any shred of warmth still in her body. She righted her clothes, tucking her disheveled hair back into a braid and underneath the hood of her jacket. Meanwhile Alayne was focusing on a crooked stone in the floor rather than on why she was disheveled. On the harsh memories of what those terrible men had planned to do to her. What they planned to do before _and_ after her capture – Alayne wasn’t sure which would have been worse.

            But they were gone. Sent away. _Brushed_ _away_ , like a troublesome speck of lint on one’s coat. Ordered away by a man who hadn’t bothered to care about how they left so long as they did.

            Ordered away by a man who _knew_ her.

            Alayne couldn’t scrub away that look on Petyr’s face. A look of pity at the fact that she couldn’t remember her name. And then – a look of sadness? Alayne couldn’t place that second emotion to a known word. But there had been something beneath the unhappy smile, something more than simple condolences at her loss.

            Did he know _why_ she couldn’t remember?

            Did he know _her_?

            And then, a second thought tied to that latter one, almost crawling into her mind in tandem: did _she_ know him?

            _You can join me if you want_ , Petyr had said. And then he left without a backwards glance.

            There was so much, too much, in that simple sentence. In the fact that this man had saved her – twice, she remembered – and then left. Left with an open invitation to join him. To have him save her again?

            What perhaps stood out more was the way the words fell from his mouth. Not as a command or a threat. Not as something she was expected to do, regardless of any inner turmoil or distaste.

            Petyr was letting her choose.

            But Alayne couldn’t figure out which choice was right or wrong. Which choice would send her out of the greying fog, and which would send her flimsy boat straight into the roiling storm.

            Her feet were moving before she realized it, stumbling over themselves and the littering of bodies or animals or refuse that she wasn’t sure had been there before. She could feel her muscles aching and yelling at her to stop, but she ignored them. Later – she would deal with all of that later.

            Alayne was barely at the alley’s end when her voice called out a feeble “Wait!” to no one in particular. And no one in particular paid her much attention. Alayne darted her gaze around the street, looking for the man with the unusual smirk and the unsmiling eyes. Looking for the man who might kill her just like everyone else planned to.

            There – between shuffling people, rounding the corner of a street two blocks down. Alayne shoved through a displeased group and nearly tripped over a frail child begging for food scraps. On she moved, and on her body screamed at her to stop.

            It wasn’t much, the faint glimmer of hope in her chest as she fumbled down the street. The faint glimmer that a crack might begin at the base of the massive dam in her mind. So small, but over time it would send the grey structure tumbling down. So small, but it was a lot more than Alayne had elsewise.

            She made it to the corner, dodging a young girl running past her with a warm loaf under her arm. Alayne glanced behind to see a man with white hair and white powder splashed on his clothes and arms, giving chase to the girl.

            Alayne didn’t see the person she collided with.

            Pain shot through her – the pain that had always been there, momentarily forgotten – and Alayne felt her body falling. She wondered if the force of her head slamming onto the pavement would make her remember. Or let her finally forget everything.

            A hand wrapped around her wrist. “Are you alright?”

            People walked past. Not a single one of them turned to look at her. “I- Sor- I-.” Her words jumbled in her throat, unable to figure out whether to apologize or question or accuse. Finally she settled on, “Yes, I’m... I’m fine. I thought you had gone already.”

            Alayne was firmly righted on the pavement, her body still aching with that heavy grey soreness. Even after the threat of falling, Petyr’s fingers circled her thin wrist. His skin was warm. “I had forgotten something.”

            “Forgotten what?” she blurted out.

            And like her words fading into the wind, there was the glimmer of a thought that was fading from Petyr’s. Unspoken in the air. But spoken just the same in how a smile had begun to creep towards his cheeks and eyes. He shoved it away. “I had to speak with someone. I had been on my way to before I saw your, erm, _incident_ in the alley.”

            Ice shot through Alayne’s veins as she remembered that. Would she be able to forget it? To forget the heavy press of those men on her? To forget what they wanted to do?

            She shook the vision away.

            “I…” Alayne forced the fear and uncertainty down. She looked at the man standing before her (and still clutching lightly to her wrist): Petyr was her height, and his frame was thin. Had Alayne been anything more than skin and bones, she imagined she could take him in a fight. Win or lose, she wasn’t sure. A much fairer fight than the three men from before. Petyr tilted his head at the recognition that she was sizing him up, the faintest tug pulled at the corner of his lips.

            The monster coiled around her heart snarled. It whispered warnings to her in a language she couldn’t decode. If Alayne was smart, she would listen to it – she would let the grey cloud consume her into a soothing embrace of forgetfulness.

            If Alayne was wrong about Petyr and his intentions, she hoped she would be able to kill herself first.

            “How do you know me?”

            The hand around her wrist left to scratch lightly at his chin, smoothing over the faint stubble there. The smirk was still set on Petyr’s face, and the shadows in his mossy eyes were indiscernible. On and on the monster growled.

            “Do I know you? I thought I was being rather kind in helping a defenseless girl out.”

            Something about the casualness in his voice rankled deep in Alayne. As though he had done it before, countless times. “No one does things because they’re _kind_.” They always want something out of every thing they do, she thought. A sliver of memory peaked through the massive dam. Alayne remembered that once, so many years ago, people _did_ do things just because: people were kind and cared for one another. Not anymore.

            His smile grew wider, though it still failed to reach further than his lips. Petyr looked around at the people passing by, at the people lying dead and dying in the streets. At the sun that slowly fell from its perch in the sky. “Have you thought about my offer, Alayne?”

            She wanted to see his eyes, but Petyr kept his gaze fixed away. “What offer?”

            The white-haired baker trundled past them, loaf of bread tucked under one arm and a girl with purpling bruises under the other. She was crying, shrieking. She didn’t mean to do it; she just wanted to feed her little brother.

            Petyr watched them as he answered, “Whether you’ll join me or not?”

            Alayne watched them, too. A shard of Alayne’s too-small heart cracked at the sight of the small girl, but she kept it pressed under her ribs. There wasn’t enough of her left to give to a stranger. “Why does that matter?”

            “Because, Alayne,” he began. The baker and the bread and the girl rounded a corner several blocks away. And passersby paid them no heed just as they did towards Alayne. The people of the town just didn’t _care_. “I need to know if I can trust you.”

            Her head shot from where the baker disappeared  to Petyr. He was staring at her now, gauging her reaction.

            Trust? Didn’t it go the other way? Wasn’t Alayne – the _poor and defenseless girl_ that she was, with nothing and no one – wasn’t she the one that needed the trust of this stranger? The trust that he wouldn’t use her or kill her?

            Alayne could only imagine at the sorts of things within Petyr’s head.

            So this was his idea of _choice_. Of allowing Alayne to decide whether or not to join him in gods-knew where, doing gods-knew what. And in exchange, Petyr would provide Alayne with information and understanding. And – so she hoped – with the beginning cracks to that impregnable dam.

            Still, there were so many ways in which this could go wrong.

            “Perhaps,” Alayne said. “Perhaps I’ll go with you, but I don’t know anything about you.” _Meanwhile, you seem to know a lot about me_.

            Petyr continued to rub his jaw, continued to watch Alayne with shadowed eyes.

            “Walk wit-,” he stopped, changing his words. “Have you walked around the city yet, Alayne? There’s much to see.” Petyr took a step away, waiting for her, gesturing with a hand for her to follow. Unspoken words: _If you want_. The same words from earlier echoed at the end of every sentence he said.

            Alayne took that first step, hiking the bag higher up her back, gripping the straps tightly between thin fingers. Another step – the unspoken agreement of _perhaps_ still hanging in the air between them. Her fingers tightened painfully. Tugging on the straps helped with each step she took – the pain from earlier still spreading through each inch of her body.

            They walked side-by-side in silence for a block, weaving through the sparse crowds of the city. Petyr was careful to walk only as fast as she could. They crossed to the other side of the street, the buildings’ shadows enveloping them. No one else was here; no one else was foolish enough to wander free of the warmth of the sun.

            “This,” Petyr began finally. They continued walked, but at a slower. He made a show of pointing to buildings and the street, as if there were things to actually see and watch aside from filth and people. “Is Rosby. A small town, not much to do or see. Used to have acres and acres of farmlands before they were razed or poisoned. They still farm here and there, but as you can see, the town has dwindled to nothing.”

            Alayne walked and listened. She wondered if there was something she was meant to gain from this tour, something actually useful. Or if Petyr was merely wasting her time.

            He continued, pointing now to the nondescript buildings across the street. “Instead of acres and acres of fertile farms, now Rosby and the Crownlands are full of death. People who are. People who are almost there. And many more people who would sell out others for a scrap of food. Or for their own lives.”

            She glanced from the buildings and the people ambling beneath them to Petyr. She wondered how long he hadn’t been staring at the other side of the street. His moss-green eyes were focused on the strands of hair that peaked out from the hood of her jacket.

            It was then Alayne realized that this history lesson was far from it. She swept the wayward hairs behind her ears and tugged the hood further down. Petyr let out a small, breathless chuckle. She asked, “What does this city and everything have to do with you?”

            They began moving again. Petyr was careful not to step near the dead, though it was getting more and more difficult the further into the heart of the city they ventured. “Well, Alayne, how much of the world do you remember?”

            She couldn’t help but watch as a dog with dirty, matted fur dug under the skin of a man sprawled on top of a pile of others. His body, like everyone else’s, was already torn from countless probing beaks and claws. There couldn’t be much meat left on those bones.

            Should she lie? But that brought back the initial question that continued to burn and echo in her mind: how much of Alayne does Petyr know? Would he know she was lying? Would there be consequences for lying?

            Her body shook. Yes, there would be consequences for lying. Alayne couldn’t remember how or why she knew, but deep down the monster inside her thrashed in fear. Alayne had lied before – before everything. And look at where she was now. At who she was.

            “I remember a few things.”

            “Hmm,” was all Petyr gave in reply. They rounded the pile of bodies and turned down a smaller, empty street covered in shadows. It was hard to tell whether the people slouched against buildings were dead or alive or somewhere in between.

            “I’m sure you know – or have guessed, at least – that the world has…changed,” he began again. “That these bodies weren’t always here. That _you_ weren’t always like this.” Alayne glanced at him but he was staring forward. “The world is shit, now. Although, to be fair it had always been. But this-” Petyr spread his arms, and Alayne saw it. The shadowed death lining up either side of the street, so thick and dark and rotting. Bodies were piled so high the street became a dead-end. Alayne felt fear and bitter bile rise in her throat, threatening to add to the insurmountable pile before her. She felt the monster thrashing inside her ribs, clawing and growling. She felt her blood run cold. “This festering cesspit of death and disease and fear. This is what the world has become, Alayne. But we can change it. _You_ can change it.”

            Her mind had started to count the bodies, but lost track after thirty. There was just _too many_. Too much death and decay.

            Alayne remembered the ringing gunfire and echoing screams of people like her dying all around. Remembered how easily their skin fell apart or their brains smashed against the concrete.

            She had escaped, true, but what about everyone else? What about these people, rotting their lives away in Rosby and throughout the country, waiting until the dogs and crows pick their flesh for food?

            How in the seven heavens and hells could Alayne do _anything_ if she didn’t even know who she was?

            Alayne felt sick. Her voice was so small, so weak. She fought to keep the emotions out, but still they crept through. “Why?”

            Before Petyr could answer, Alayne’s words filled the air: “Why did this happen? Why do you need me? Why can’t I remember anything? Why _me_?” She didn’t mean for them to tumble out, didn’t want them to. Didn’t want Petyr to hear the fear in her voice. Didn’t want him to understand how terribly small she felt staring at the endless death surrounding her.

            A high-pitched ringing echoed between the buildings. And then: a voice.

            Alayne crumbled. She gripped her head, willing the painful ringing away. Screams joined the ringing – were they hers? Someone else’s? There were animals, too: howls and chirps and pounding paws filling whatever voids the screaming left empty.

            _Alayne!_

            There was that voice, too. A woman’s voice. Far away, as if someone was yelling at her from the surface of a lake and Alayne was far, far below. Scrambling for the surface. Scrambling for air. Alayne couldn’t make out the sentences, couldn’t see who was there yelling for her. Strings of words jumbled together into empty sounds. It was familiar, that Alayne was sure. The voice was so familiar, so painfully familiar. Somehow, through the screaming and the ringing, Alayne made out the string: dead or alive.

            _Alayne!_

            The voice made the ringing echo across her skin and deep into her bones. She felt it in her heart – where her heart should have been. Where that shadowed monster stood, its hackles raised and growling.

            “Alayne! Stop!”

            She did.

            The ringing and the growling and the voice and the screaming – it all stopped. Her head was painfully silent. It hurt to listen to the absence of noise. It hurt to breathe.

            Alayne was kneeling on the floor, her hands still cupped around her ears. The world was coming back in short bursts. The ground beneath her was slick in refuse and blood, her clothes splattered in it. The walls, too.

            And holding onto her shoulders – grounding her in reality, keeping her from succumbing to whatever storm of noise and fear that ate at her – was Petyr.

            There was _fear_ on his face and in his eyes and in the strength with which his fingers dug into her shoulders.

            “What… Who was that?” A face appeared in her vision – distorted and fuzzy. The shape of a face, without any distinct features. Alayne could hear the woman’s voice loud and clear in her mind. _Dead or alive_ , she said, among other words. It sent a shiver through Alayne’s body. She couldn’t remember anything else, but Alayne _knew_ the bitterness and disgust that existed in the woman’s voice. It was always there, always directed towards Alayne.  

            Petyr’s grip lightened on her skin, but he kept his hands there. Just in case, she thought. In case Alayne broke down again with worse consequences.

            His voice was low, a whisper. “She murdered your family.”

            His face transformed into a field of white. Specks of white floated lazily from the sky, covering trees and flowers and stones. A grey castle spread out on the horizon, a morning sun cresting over its spires. Alayne reached out to capture the white in her hands. And when they touched her skin, they melted red.

            Alayne heard herself scream in her head. Heard herself sobbing, crying out for her family.

            She saw them die, she remembered. Saw their blood tainting the pure white snow. Alayne tried to picture their faces – her mother and father and siblings and whoever else lay dead that morning. She couldn’t remember. They were nothing but blurs of grey, mouths wide in fear and pain.

            One by one, her family was taken from her. One by one, the snow-covered field of her home grew darker with crimson.

            But they didn’t kill her.

            “They shouldn’t have died, not like that.”

            Alayne blinked. The field of white and red faded into the shadows cast over Petyr’s face. His words echoed in her mind: not like that not like that. Petyr was staring blindly at her neck, and Alayne could tell his mind was much further away. _They shouldn’t have died at all_ , she wanted to say. To scream.

            “What do you mean?”

            One of Petyr’s hands left its perch on her shoulder, coiling itself around the loose braid of her hair. Alayne hadn’t realized the hood of her jacket had fallen. She could feel his fingers winding and unwinding the braid, toying with the wayward strands. Alayne wished more than anything to understand what was going through his mind.

            Finally he spoke, a murmur: “I was there. _We_ were there, the day your family was murdered. They weren’t supposed to die. All of you were supposed to live.” Petyr’s fingers tugged on the braid. “But we failed.”

            He let go, of her hair and her shoulder. Alayne watched him stand up. She did, too, rising on shaking legs.

            It was then she saw it.

            The pile of bodies that once stood as high as her, that once blocked their path: it was gone. Not so much _gone_ , as displaced. Moved. Strewn across the streets, and even smashed against the buildings’ walls. Alayne could feel a trickle of someone slide down her cheek and onto her jacket.

            She didn’t know how or why, but she knew it was her. Alayne sent her emotions exploding from her head and chest into the real world.

            And then they had just stopped.

            “Is that why you saved me?” She glanced towards him. “Because you _failed_ last time?”

            Petyr looked almost _hurt_ at her accusation. At the bite that lay in her words. She wanted to feel sorry for it, but she couldn’t. Alayne was so definitely _alone_ now. What good was it to regain her memories if _pain_ was only what would come back to her? Perhaps it would have been so much better to live in the ignorance of that grey fog. To let the absence of memories carry her away from everything and everyone.

            It was too late now.

            The storm of emotions swirled in her chest. Such a painful flurry of _everything_. She wanted to cry and scream and yell – but she tamped it down. Later. Always later

            “Now what?”

            She met his gaze, and counted the numerous emotions that played out upon his skin. The hurt from her biting words. The hatred at the people responsible for it sending the world into a festering shithole, as he put it. There was fear, too, and Alayne wondered if it was from the world or if it was because of _her_.

            “And now, you can avenge them.” Petyr moved to take a step towards her, to reach out for her, but held himself back. She realized she was right about the fear. “It won’t be easy. Or quick, or clean.” A pause. Petyr surveyed the chaos surrounding them, all the death that lay at their feet. “You can avenge your family, Alayne. But you’ll have to trust me.”

            She half expected him to reach out his hand for her to take. A physical acceptance of her trust in him, and his trust in her. But he didn’t, and Alayne was thankful for that.

            Alayne stared long into mossy eyes just as riotous and shadowed as her own. She couldn’t see anything beneath them. There was nothing in them. Even the flurry of emotions she saw earlier were carefully put away, hidden from her scrutiny.

            Alayne thought on that brief glimmer of hurt that crossed Petyr’s face. On the field of white littered with blood.

            She knew nothing. Had nothing. There wasn’t anything else, no one else. Not for her.

            She was nothing, too.

            Should they fail – should Alayne succumb to the wild wills of the world and the people who control it, and to even whatever machinations Petyr had in store for her vengeance – at least there wasn’t anyone left to grieve for her.

            “Alright.”


	4. { iv }

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Petyr’s point of view this chapter. I always forget how much fun it is to write him!  
> Also I haven’t said this in a while, but I love each and every one of you for sticking with this story and sharing your love/thoughts!! Y’all are awesome! :D ]

 

            The problem with carefully-laid plans was that there was one way for it to succeed and at least a million ways for it to fail. The more complicated the plan – the more loose ends, the more points along the way from a plan’s conception to its final satisfying end – the easier it was for something to go completely, irreparably wrong.

            And right now, Petyr Baelish was starting to _doubt_ if the threads of his plan could ever be strung back together.

            In a word: the plan was fucked.

            In several words: the plan was royally, completely, so-fucking-off-course-they’ve-wound-up-in-the wrong-fucking-continent _fucked_.

            Was the damage irreparable though? Well, only time would tell. On its course from beginning to end, the plan was perhaps half-way through before the pieces began moving atypically across the board laid out inside Petyr’s mind. They moved, but made their own moves – which was frightening. Self-governance (or more accurately, _realization of what the fuck was going on_ ) was not something Petyr predicted to happen quite so fast.

            But the damage had burnt holes through the threads. A fire burning and burning, setting pieces ablaze in their own destruction. Setting a small, cowering piece of crimson and ivory tumbling towards the board’s edge.

            A second. A single, solitary _tick_ of the clock was all the difference between Petyr lunging to catch the piece before it fell – and the piece smattering into infinite pieces, swept away like dust in the hot autumn air.

            Oh, but the damage was done. There were cracks winding its way through that once-shining piece of red and white. Some long, most jagged and winding around the piece’s throat.

            Blue stared at him through ivory cracks. Empty, lifeless, confused.

            Whether asleep or awake or consumed with setting the threads back into a semblance of order, those eyes haunted Petyr.

            _She_ haunted him.

            And he was left standing there – threads of gold and emerald and sapphire twined about his fingers, hanging limp in the darkness of his mind – so confused and aching.

            Petyr shook it away. _Later_ , he thought. Later, he would deal with righting those winding, jagged cracks. Later, he would deal with the lasting consequences of him being a second too late.

            Later, he would tell her the truth.

            Petyr felt an errant breeze creep across his face, felt the world come back to life before him. He turned to watch Alayne struggle up the small knoll of grass where he stood. _Struggle_ might have been too kind a word. Petyr would think it nothing short of the gods’ intervention should Alayne manage the last few yards up towards him.

            He gazed behind her. The desolate farmlands and the small copse of ruined buildings stood. It was still too easy to make out jagged cracks in the stones or the scorch marks where grain once grew. They had only put about five miles between them and Rosby. And dusk was already starting to creep orange tendrils into the sky. Petyr looked up at it, at the short puffs of clouds that meandered north. Dusk almost made them look ablaze – small, desperate torches of fire keeping the sun’s light alive against the oncoming darkness.

            Five miles, and far too many left to go. In an ideal world, Petyr imagined them to have arrived at Duskendale by nightfall, or at least before midnight. He imagined they would have been close enough to the city by the time the sun’s puffy harbingers were completely snuffed out to keep the wolves and bears (and gods-knew what else lurked in the woods) at bay. Petyr was rather fond of keeping all sorts of animals within sight and far away – literal or figurative.

            If they were lucky, they would arrive by tomorrow’s nightfall.

            Or rather: if they were lucky, they wouldn’t be eaten alive during the night.

            Alayne finally crested the knoll where Petyr stood, leaning heavily against a tree to catch her breath. Her face caught and reflected dusk’s colors like a mirror held to torchlight. Her hair was still kept beneath the hood of her jacket except where flyaways poked into the air or stuck to her skin. Arms and legs threatened to collapse on her.

            It was almost pathetic.

            Alayne looked past him at the expanse of the forest crawling along the coast. They had been creeping beneath the trees for the last mile. But now, above it and looking at it –the trees seemed to go on forever.

            Petyr had followed her gaze northwards. He heard her reach for her water, heard the unsatisfying gulp as only scant drops remained in her canteen.

            “How much… How much further…?”

            Alayne was _persistent_ , Petyr would give her that. Her body was clearly overworked and underfed – to be honest, Petyr was surprised she hadn’t collapsed yet. But she didn’t complain the numerous times she tripped or bruised or fell behind. She kept quiet, and kept persisting.

            Petyr wondered about that.

            “That’s about it for today. I hear a stream flowing not far away – we can refill our water and rest. It’s nearly dark now. No point in traveling in the dark with the wolves.”

            Alayne flinched at that – at _wolves_. Eyes glazed over, brows creased, she clawed against the dam, desperately trying to pin that word to something in her mind.

            A moment later, Alayne huffed in defeat.

            She knew there was something about that word. Something about _everything_ – and yet, her mind was keeping all these secrets away from her. No matter how loudly she begged or how far she reached, her mind refused to give in.

            It frustrated Petyr as much as it did Alayne. And yet, here Petyr was. Helping her to remember just as much as her brain was willing to divulge its secrets.

            Petyr ran fingers through sweat-soaked hair. “Are you ready to head down?”

            Alayne nodded, and they continued.

            They made their way down, through a winding path towards the stream. It wasn’t at all far from where they stood on the knoll’s top. But it was worse heading down: Alayne slid over each patch of loose rocks and caught on wayward branches. They hardly made any distance before Petyr had to grip her hand for her balance. Alayne pulled away at the contact, nearly tumbling to the floor. She finally let him help her. And iIt irritated Petyr. And he didn’t know why.

            It irritated him how afraid and alone he knew she felt, trapped inside her head. It irritated him how cold her hand was despite how hard her breaths came out, or how much her body was straining to keep itself moving. And it irritated him the way he could feel every joint of her bones move beneath her flesh.

            No, he _did_ know why she irritated him. Because if Petyr hadn’t let his plans become so royally fucked up, Alayne wouldn’t be struggling to walk down this stupid little hill. Wouldn’t be struggling to remember, or to _live_.

            Petyr tamped down the anger, kept the venom from all of the burnt threads out of his words. Soft, kind, uncommanding; that’s what she needed. “No, don’t step there, Alayne. Put your– Better if you stepped on this stump.” Petyr couldn’t help but notice how much her legs were shaking, or how much colder her hand felt. It wouldn’t be long before her body completely gave out on her. “That’s it. Just a little further.”

            The moment running water was within reach, Alayne collapsed onto the dirt, not even bothering to sit upon the stones littered beside the creek. Her shoulders rose and fell in short bursts. Her breaths were loud, labored – the only sound other than the water flowing over rocks and helpless twigs.

            It wasn’t a very large stream. Petyr imagined he could leap across it without much of a running start, though there wasn’t anything on the other side save for more grass and trees and – a long, long ways away – the rest of the world.

            Oh, thank the gods they weren’t heading _there_ , not yet. Alayne was hardly in the proper physical or mental condition to make it to Duskendale. It was luck of the gods she made it to this tiny stream. Petyr turned to look at her: body still shuddering, still trying to feign off the cold that was threatening to shut everything down. Alayne, in a word, was a mess.

            But all those torn, burnt threads along with the new, uncertain ones – at least they had some unintended good consequences. Duskendale was much, much closer. Alayne would at least be able to push herself that far at least. And from there…

            “Alayne, hand me– I can fill your canteen if you want?” She didn’t reply, didn’t move other than to breathe and shake and breathe. Petyr wasn’t sure if she heard him or even made sense of the words.

            He approached, boots crunching at gravel and leaves underfoot. Kneeling beside her, he asked again. “Alayne, I’m going to get your canteen and fill it, okay?” There was a small, imperceptible nod – or at least Petyr thought so. He reached for the empty canteen in her pack, his fingers brushing against something long and cold lying at the bottom. Brilliant red flashed in his mind; rotting, falling, turning to ash in his fingers. _Later_ , he reminded himself.

            With Alayne’s canteen in one hand and fishing out his with the other, Petyr made his way to the stream. The water was cold, swirling around his fingers as the canteens _glug glug glugged_ their fill. He watched a golden leaf sail its way down the stream, nearly colliding with him before changing course at the last minute. On it wove, between rocks and around twigs, down and down into the forest beyond.

            Petyr gazed around him as he capped the canteens closed, taking a long drag from his before closing it off. There wasn’t much around in terms of protection or shelter. Dirt and rocks and trees, growing nearer the further from Rosby they went. The occasional knoll or trickling stream, few and far between. No place to make shelter. And no place to hide.

            Petyr wasn’t sure which prospect sat heavier in his stomach.

            His gaze turned, finally falling upon the hunched, fragile girl before him. She was still shivering. “Here,” he said, offering Alayne her canteen. She made sense of Petyr’s words this time, head lifting enough to reveal her eyes. Blue eyes – but faded and cracked and tired. Such a bleak shade of blue now, rounded by darkness and bone. Petyr tried so hard, so desperately hard to remember the deep shade of the ocean or the swirling brilliance of the sky the day after a rainstorm. Neither of those were what he saw in the girl before him.

            Even her hair had lost its once-shining color. The evening sky, a sliver of the sun peaking out just above the horizon, setting the ocean alight in long streaks of reds and oranges and faint wisps of shining gold. A beautiful landscape demanding attention. But Alayne’s hair was dark and bleak and cracking. Not at all the brilliant evening sky. Not at all full of life and wonder.

            Her skin, too. Ghostly white wherever it peaked out of her jacket. Angry pink patches wherever the sun fell for too long – which was hardly a few hours’ time. So long, _too_ long, had she been shunned away from the inviting warmth of the sun. Petyr’s gaze trailed along the even fainter lines crossing and rounding her skin in a shade of white lighter than the rest. So faint, but so many. And everywhere.

            Death. That’s who Alayne was, what she was. At this moment, tired and trembling and still gasping for air.

            Oh yes, this pale imitation of the girl before him haunted Petyr.

            He snapped his attention from the bleak depths of her eyes, focusing on the weight of the canteen in her hand. Petyr set it in her open hands. Watched as thin fingers circled the neck, watched as cracked lips drank and drank as if somehow the water was more than water. Perhaps Alayne thought the water might turn back time before all of this.

            When she finished, her canteen empty again, Alayne stared out into the forest beyond. Petyr thought he saw disappointment cross her eyes – that the water _was_ just water, and Alayne _was_ just some broken, tired little girl.

            Petyr took the canteen from her fingers and filled it again. When he returned, he said, “I think that’s enough walking for today.” _Unfortunately_ , he added to himself. “I think it’s best if we head back up to that hill and make camp, then leave at first light. With any luck we’ll be in town before next nightfall.”

            “Where are we? Going?” The last word seemed to be an afterthought.

            Petyr stared at her hands, noting how sharply the knuckles pushed against skin. “We’re meeting with a friend who’ll help us get to some more friends.”

            A pause. “Who are these… _friends_? Where are they?”

            He could feel her gaze on him, burning into him, _demanding_ without asking for Petyr to give her answers. Her mind was already fighting against her, she didn’t need someone else, too. _A pity_. “It’s too dangerous to tell you, I’m afraid. Were we to be captured or overheard, our enemies could take us down.”           

            Still Petyr felt those pale eyes fixed on him. Still Petyr kept eyes tracing over the endless scars lining her fingers. He had started to count them but lost track.

            “Please, Petyr.” When she didn’t continue, he finally raised his gaze to look at her. Fear and uncertainty lined the darkness around her eyes. Alayne was Death, but she was still a child. Scared and alone. Her voice was a child’s: “Please don’t lie to me.”

            An ache speared through Petyr’s chest. A shard of glass, lodged in between ribs – it was always there. And now it hurt, physically.

            “Alayne, I need you to believe me when I say I want to keep you safe. And I want to help you to avenge your family.” A shadow crossed her face. “But you need to trust me.”

            She stared at him, eyes roving around his face, trying to figure out which parts of Petyr’s words were lies and which were convenient half-truths. _Trust me_ , he said. _Trust me_ , he begged.

            Alayne shouldn’t. No one should. Petyr was not a man to be trusted.

            And yet – Alayne slowly nodded. It wasn’t a complete, blind trust she was willing to give him. But it was more than Petyr would have earned had those delicate threads not been so devastatingly burnt.

            Alayne set the canteen back in her pack, not before wiping cold drops from its neck through her hair. And then, in words that were almost drowned out by the stream: “I’m sorry.”

            She didn’t look at him when she spoke, fingers fumbling with closing her bag. As an excuse to not give more, he thought. Petyr twisted the cap of his canteen, open and close and open and close. As _his_ excuse. “For what?”

            Alayne struggled to stand, her body fighting against movement. Petyr began doubting his plan of setting camp up on that knoll. A safer advantage point, yes. But that was assuming the two of them could actually make it there. It might be another hour before they made camp.

            “For… For _this_.”

            Both of them knew what _this_ meant. Alayne’s slowness; how weak her body was; the lack of memories and understanding. Everything that had happened that she couldn’t even remember.

            She looked at him with those empty, pale eyes. He saw them, reaching up from the darkness, clinging to the edge of the gameboard. _Please, Petyr_ , her eyes said. _Please don’t let me shatter into a million pieces and fade into nothing_.

            He blinked, and her eyes were still there.

            _I’m sorry_. Those two words caught in Petyr’s throat. How they struggled to climb out into his mouth and shout themselves into the world. But they didn’t.

            Almost. Petyr licked his lips, parted them, closed. Thought and re-thought and re-re-thought the consequences of two simple words. Three syllables. A simple press of air from his throat. Petyr stared into the endless emptiness of Alayne’s eyes, felt that jabbing shard twist in his chest.

            “Look’it we have here!”

            _Fuck_ replaced every thought in Petyr’s head, replaced every caught word in his throat. _Fuck, not fucking now_.

            By the time he thought another string of creative _fucks_ , Petyr’s face was a mask free of any anger or annoyance or fear. He casually turned away from Alayne (but not without taking a not-so-casual step back towards her), facing the _inconvenience_ that snuck up on him.

            There was only one of them this time. Petyr couldn’t be sure if he’d met them before, or told them to _fuck off_ within the past day or several weeks. All of the blasted Towers looked the same: scrawny and brutish and plain. There was nothing wholly remarkable about them except for how unremarkable they were. Which worked to their advantage, Petyr had to admit. No one would give a second glance to a Tower. Not once think them remotely handsome, not once think them remotely strong or capable of…well, anything.

            The Tower leapt over the stream, narrowed eyes not once trailing from Petyr. He kept several paces’ distance between him and Petyr.

            When he spoke, his voice grated against Petyr’s ears. “I hadn’t thought _she’d_ send her fucking bird looking for the bitch, too.” A step forward, a glance behind Petyr. Petyr stood his ground, face bored. “You cunt, how the fuck did you find her so quick?” Another step. “We’ve been fucking searching all over, and what’d you do? Fucking waltz in and find her like _that_?” He _snapped_ his fingers at the last word.

            Something about the Tower nagged at Petyr. Not his crude words or demeanor – that was normal for them. Not his swagger. Not the unfiltered loathing hidden deep in his eyes. It was something else. Something he did, something he said–

            _We_.

            Petyr spun around just as Alayne’s scream cut off.

            An arm clamped over her mouth, another dug into her waist. Adrenaline coursed through Alayne’s body: arms clawing at the man’s skin, feet kicking at whatever she could reach.

            “Let her go!” Petyr snarled to the second Tower.

            But he didn’t.

            The man’s grip on Alayne tightened. Her already-futile motions became weaker, growing fainter with each swipe and kick. Still she fought. Still she hoped she could get free. But no amount of adrenaline could tear the impregnable stones of a well-built castle down. Not with bare hands.

            Still her eyes found Petyr’s and pleaded: _You promised to keep me safe._

            Petyr took steps towards the second Tower. He forced his words out in loud, clear syllables. “Put. Her. Down. _Now_.”

            The man holding Alayne grinned at him, the hand at her mouth pressing harder. His fingers wrapped over her nose and lips. It wouldn’t be long before she died – suffocation or strangulation or some morbid combination of the two. But not yet. The Towers wouldn’t let such easy prey slip into death so soon without having a bit of _fun_. Or so Petyr hoped.

            Laughter erupted behind him. Petyr turned, barely tamping down on the riotous mix of fear and anger burning through him. The first Tower was still standing by the stream, hands clamped over his ears. His voice was loud and tinged in humor. “You fucking dumbfuck, thought you were invincible?” More laughter, with harsh words spoken in his gasps for air: “Oh, fucking hell. So fucking helpless, aren’t ya? Walder there’s deaf as a, uh, a bat, ya know. A bat? Fuck if I know. But scream and shout all you want, birdcunt, your fucking words ain’t getting to him.”

            Petyr felt sick. Fear was clinging onto his bones and muscles and organs, casing them in frost and shutting down. Anger was burning and burning, running through his veins and setting every inch of Petyr alight in a scorching rage.

            These two Towers were going to pay. _She_ was going to pay.

            But the Tower, the not-Walder one, he had the advantage. Both he and Petyr knew it, and the man’s gloating laughter was irritating. Walder couldn’t hear, and not-Walder’s hands were just as thick and heavy enough to make him temporarily deaf.

            Not-Walder took a step forward. Petyr took a step back.

            There weren’t many steps left between them. And behind, Petyr heard Walder’s feet crunching on the twigs, heard Alayne’s faint struggling. Good – she wasn’t dead yet. Another step. But not good – the Towers flanked Petyr, and they need only get close enough before corralling him like the frightened pigeon they made him out to be. Whether they left Petyr alive or took their time savoring how best to kill the mockingbird – that, Petyr wasn’t willing to leave to chance.

            There _was_ one option: Petyr could run. He could outrun any of the sluggish Towers any day. Petyr could make it out alive, rearrange the complex threads again and reset the pieces. The last days, weeks, _months_ would have been in vain, but the end was not completely lost. He’d faced worst situations and thrived. Oh yes, Petyr Baelish could run and live and still coil the world around his hands.

            But Alayne…

            Petyr glanced at the ground, at the stream behind the Tower, at the trees, at the irritating smirk on the Tower’s plain face. He was enjoying this: the fear in Petyr, the helplessness.

            There were far too few steps now. There were far too little sounds of struggle coming from behind.

            Now or never.

            Petyr ducked, grabbing the largest rock he could, and threw it at Not-Walder. It broke a tooth and tore at his lip – but not before sending half a tooth flying inwards. Not-Walder gagged, startled at the pain and the fact that the defenseless little mockingbird had more tricks up his sleeve than singing sweet songs. Not-Walder’s lunged for Petyr, reaching for Petyr’s throat and imaging how delightful it would be to see the smaller man’s eyes pop out.

            Not-Walder’s eyes widened, He pulled his hand back to–

            “Don’t you _dare_ fucking cover your ears again,” Petyr roared. Not-Walder’s hand trembled in midair, an inch away from safety. Yes, Not-Walder should be trembling, Petyr thought. He picked himself up, wiping dirt and leaves from his pants. There was a prickling burn in his leg, but Petyr ignored it. It was nothing compared to the fire in him scorching and encasing his heart. It was too large, too hot, for Petyr to.

            Petyr pointed behind him at Walder. He set the fire aside, filling his words with ice. Filled them with a quiet, unyielding hatred: “Your fucking mate Walder? Get him to let go of Alayne. _Safely_. For your own fucking sake she better still be alive.” Petyr watched Not-Walder’s body shake, watched Not-Walder desperately try to fight against the unknown urge in his muscles to move. Not-Walder failed – of course he failed - and moved past Petyr. “Oh, and one more thing. Once Alayne is safe, smash in your mate’s head. A rock, a stump, your boot. I’m feeling rather _generous_ so I’ll let you choose. Though a rock _would_ keep the theme.”

            Not-Walder shot slurs at Petyr, ever other word a derivation of _fuck_. Not-Walder struggled against Walder, but the struggle did not harm Alayne. She was (to Petyr’s relief) not dead, though the lack of air and the sudden adrenaline sent her body into shock. To Petyr’s relief (and delight), Walder and Not-Walder were too occupied with who which one of them would get their head smashed, that Alayne was dropped the moment Not-Walder made his move.

            Thank the gods Not-Walder was larger. Hardly a minute passed before Not-Walder had Walder pinned against a tree, a deliciously jagged rock in his hand. Walder begged for help. A mixture of tears and blood and brain splattered against the tree and onto the dirt. The squishy _thud thud thud_ stopped only when the rock made it through bone to the tree. Petyr had to admit there was more brain matter than he would have thought for a Tower.

            “Stop.”

            Not-Walder’s arm froze in midair. Where once the dusk air was filled with his gleeful laughter, now chocking sobs were hardly louder than the stream. “You…sick…fuck… Fuck you…”

            Petyr approached, carefully avoiding the mess of Not-Walder’s friend across the floor. A particular step was squishier than the others, and Petyr had to swallow a gag.     “Now, now Not-Walder. If you keep talking like that, I’ll have you do the same as you as you so _barbarically_ did to your poor mate here.” Petyr _tsk_ ed in mock pity. He reached for the man’s chin, angling it towards the bloody mess he made. Petyr felt the muscles in the Tower’s jaw recoil at his touch, fighting desperately hard to move against the order to _stop_. “Or, you can tell me who sent you and I’ll let you see tomorrow.”

            Petyr _knew_ who sent these Towers. Who else would know where Petyr would be escorting Alayne? Who else would know Petyr was _involved_ in Alayne’s escape?

            But he wanted to hear her blasted name. Wanted to hear Not-Walder beg for his life. _Revenge was always more satisfying with a bit of blood spilt by someone else_.

            Not-Walder’s voice cracked. It was such a fragile word. Hardly a word, hardly a whisper.

            Petyr smiled. “Thank you, Not-Walder. As an honorable man of my word, I’ll let you live.” Petyr let go of the man’s jaw, wiping his fingers clean of stray flecks of Walder’s blood and flesh and brain.

            It was past dusk already. Silver moonlight threaded through the trees, casting the world in a faint blue glow. Light bounced off of what remained of poor Walder, and Petyr tried to picture the shard of glass in his chest. It didn’t move, didn’t stir, as Petyr stared at the broken, mutilated skull. Bugs were already crawling across Walder.

            Not-Walder was still alternating between sobbing and swearing.

            Petyr moved to Alayne, feeling her weak pulse beneath cold flesh. This was too much – the world was too much for her. If _she_ hadn’t intervened, Petyr imagined letting Alayne rest in Duskendale for a few days. Just enough to rest and eat and gain some semblance of health. Now – to Petyr’s annoyance – pieces on the board were moving of their own accord again. He really hated when they did that.

            “You fucking sick… Fucking demented cunt. He was my _brother_. He didn’t even fucking do fucking nothing. We just fucking wanted to fuck with ya a bit, sick fucking mad fuck. Find the red-haired bitch, she said. Didn’t think _you’d_ find her first. Had your sick fucking way with the bitch already? Mad fuck like you already r–”

            “Rip out your tongue.”

            Not-Walder’s stream of _fucks_ turned into a stream of _please don’t please please_. Petyr listened to the Tower as he ran his fingers over the braid of Alayne’s hair. Petyr didn’t turn to look at the man, but he could practically smell him: the fear, the hopelessness, the _holy-fuck-this-man-is-insane_. Perhaps it was only Walder’s smashed brain that Petyr smelt.

The Tower sobbed, begging with his finals words for _anything else, please, I’ll do as you say_ , while his fingers rose to his mouth. There was blood there – the last thing Not-Walder would taste was death.

            Birds and squirrels rustled awake through the trees as the man screamed.

            Petyr listened to the birds as he let the man mourn over his tongue, lost somewhere in the rotting mess of Walder below him. It wasn’t until the far-away howl of a coyote rang through the trees that Petyr cut the man’s crying short.

            “Not-Walder, pick up Alayne and follow me. We’ll be making camp at higher ground. You will stay awake and keep watch for anyone else, whether human or animal.” Petyr decided not to notify the man that his services would only be until dawn. After all, Petyr wasn’t one to break promises.

            The Tower scooped up Alayne, blood and brain staining her clothes. He was holding her so gently it was at odds with the ferocity that Not-Walder smashed a rock into Walder’s skull. Perhaps this wasn’t the first time the man held someone carefully in his arms.

            No. Better not to think of them as _human_.

            Petyr walked a step behind Not-Walder, paying more attention to Alayne than the rocks and dirt sloping their way back up to the knoll. Petyr nearly tripped on a fair share of stumps. And each time, Petyr knew the man was only wishing for Petyr to fall and split his own head on a rock.

            Poetic justice. But not for the Tower. His song would be ending too soon to see it.

            Petyr sat against a tree, motioning for the man to rest Alayne beside him. She was so cold, too cold. And the night was young.

            “Not-Walder, if something horrible happens to me or Alayne while we sleep, I want you to find the highest cliff and see how long it takes you to jump from it.”

            Even weighed down in shadows, Petyr could see Not-Walder’s body tense. He leaned against a tree, hand cradling his mouth. Blood leaked through his fingers. Not-Walder’s eyes bored into Petyr with an immeasurable fury and fear that could have frightened a lesser man to death.

            Petyr ignored him and listened to the night: the soft wind rustling through branches, the chirping of bugs and animals down in the deeper stretches of forest. Even the gentle lapping of waves on the sea, only a few miles to the east. Everything was at peace.

            Still, Petyr could not stopper the fire inside him to fall asleep.

            Alayne’s body was freezing.

            He wrapped the jacket close around her thin frame, lifted her hood back over her head. Petyr couldn’t help finger the dry curls, once so soft and bountiful. He traced the faint white lines of her face, wondering where and why and how they formed. Wondering if they were marks from her childhood – playing with siblings or making an error with a pet. Wondering if they were marks from her unknown present – punishments for not behaving, punishments to be tested. Most of them were a hair’s thickness. But some were long and wide. Across cheek and nose and chin - lines ran down her neck and far beneath her clothes.

            Every scar healed physically. But each one left their mark deep against Alayne’s very soul.

            None of which she could remember. It was a _kindness_ that her memories remained so far out of reach.            

            In the silver light, Alayne was less like the shining, brilliant girl she was supposed to be, and more like death. Like the Stranger. How pale her hair was, how white her skin. She shivered against him, her body at odds between fighting to survive and giving in. There was nothing about Alayne that said she was _alive_. Nothing except for the faintest brush of air past lips and the quiet thrum of her heart against him.

            On and on he counted her scars, ice gnawing inside him as the number continued to grow. On and on his fingers smoothed over her hair, brushing lightly against cold skin.

            He was rather fond of the red. Of how it would have fallen in long, soft tresses down her back. It would be a pity to get rid it. To get rid of her.

            _Later_ , he kept telling himself. Later later later.

            Later was here. Later was the break of dawn.

            Later was _tomorrow_ , he told himself. It wasn’t now. Petyr wrapped his arms around Alayne and closed his eyes.

            He was not looking forward to ridding Westeros of its last Wolf.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [So…Petyr’s definitely not someone you should ever cross or ever trust. Ever. And yet, here Alayne is...  
> (Also I hope I didn't confuse you guys with the whole Walder / Not-Walder thing lol. tbh they're probably both named Walder anyhow).]


	5. { v }

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here’s the next chapter (finally)! Thanks for all of your love and support! :) Also, thanks for sticking with me even if I get easily distracted writing other oneshots lol]

 

            Alayne wasn’t sure what had happened to Walder when she woke up that morning. Dawn was barely peaking over the horizon. Her head hurt, her muscles hurt worse. Every part of her erupted in fire at the smallest movement. Alayne could remember them – there had been two of them, but the larger one that held her was nowhere to be seen. And Walder (or not-Walder, as Petyr had referred to him with a passing wave of hand – she wasn’t sure if Petyr even knew their names), had silently trudged down the mound once the sky was filled with streaks of pale yellow.

            Before he did, Alayne couldn’t help but notice how Not-Walder’s hands shook with a boundless rage. How his slitted eyes screamed _death_ towards Petyr. How the crevices of his fingernails and his mouth were rimmed in blood.

            And Petyr only sat against nearby a tree, watching the sky turn alive with color.

            They sat, just the two of them, scrounging for food in their bags. They each took to leaning against trees across from one another, nibbling at the sorry display of bruised food. Alayne did her best to focus on the motion of tearing chunks of stale bread and bringing it to her lips. She focused on that, because the only thing else of interest was Petyr – and he seemed intently focused on her. She thought she could feel the ghosts of his fingers through her hair.

            What Alayne could still feel was the firm grip of Walder’s fingers around her neck. Of his body pressing against her, threatening to snap her in two like the fragile thing she was. While she was frail, he had been solid and unrelenting.

            “What did you call them?” she asked as they broke their fast.

            “Who? Walder and Not-Walder?”

            “No. Well, yes.” Alayne watched him deftly slice the skin from an apple. “But you called them something else.”

            Petyr didn’t respond until the skin was peeled. She knew it wasn’t from concentration – his fingers could have neatly taken the skin off with his eyes blindfolded. It was all in the way Petyr held the blade.

            He sliced a crescent, spearing it with the knife. “Towers, you mean? They’ve thick skin, and very, very tiny brains.”

            Alayne nibbled at the bread. “Thick skin…” The press of his fingers in her neck. “It felt like–”

            “Stone.”

            She nodded.

            Petyr cut another sliver of apple as he chewed on the first. “Thick skin, stoneskin, whatever you call it it’s all the same. Might not be able to whack them or stab them, but they’ll sink just fine. It’s their genetic mutation, of sorts.” He stabbed the slice, inspecting it nonchalantly. “The only thing they’ve got going for them is there’s gods-know how many. Their father pumped them out worse than a rabbit in a bunny brothel, even at eighty.” The second slice of apple he offered silently to Alayne. She shook her head.

            It _sounded_ familiar. Towers and stoneskin and the like. Bits of knowledge knocking at the formidable dam in her mind. She felt fingers combing against the grey walls, prying for any crevice that might send it crumbling down.

            But there were other fingers, too, trying to pull away those that searched. She’d wondered whether the dam was of the drugs they had filled her with, or something else. Or, if it was her mind trying desperately to save her from the eventual flooding of memories and _pain_.

            A stark-white field spotted in red flashed in her mind.

            Alayne stared at the half-eaten bread – she wasn’t hungry anymore.

            When she looked up at him again, Petyr was staring just above her shoulder. She turned – there wasn’t anything there but more trees and the waking whispers of nature. Back she turned – and there was an almost _sadness_ beneath his veneer.

            Then it was gone.

            “We should hopefully make it to town by nightfall.”

            She forced herself to take another bite of bread, if only because her body needed the energy. It tasted like dust. “Are we almost there?”

            He sighed. “If the gods are kind.” Petyr didn’t elaborate further. Alayne took that to mean _no_.

            They packed up shortly after, though they hadn’t much to unpack in the first place. When she hoisted her bag over her shoulder, she thought she saw Petyr grimace at something behind her before heading north.

            Alayne glanced back. She tried to spy through the branches leading down the mound towards the river to where they had been ambushed – and she swore she saw a smattering of red.

* * *

            They didn’t reach Duskendale by nightfall.

            Alayne could _feel_ the impatience oozing out of Petyr. He never said anything of it – never strayed too far from her, never yanked her along or yelled at her miserable pace. She could feel impatience oozing out of her, too. At her slowness, at how much her body was screaming for her to _stop_.

            Admittedly, she _had_ felt a bit better in the morning, as though her body only needed time to rest. Alayne thought maybe if Petyr had let them stop for an entire day, she might recover. Not fully, but enough where an hour of walking didn’t entirely exhaust her. There was a quiet murmuring of energy flowing alongside Alayne’s blood, a warm, living thing. Living, but weak. Grey clouded her mind still, but the drugs lasting effects finally seemed to be wearing off from her body.

            But as much as she wanted to stop – as much as her body screamed for it – part of her didn’t want to disappoint him. Didn’t want to incur the wrath of this near-stranger.

            Alayne _had_ seen the red smashed in chunks against the tree. She _had_ seen the endless fear and anger beneath the wide eyes of Walder. And those Towers from the town, and the townspeople, too.

            Everyone seemed to _avoid_ Petyr.

            And here she was, blindly following him towards some shadowy hope of vengeance.

            _What a foolish child_ , whispered the monster inside her.

            Alayne gripped Petyr’s hand as he helped hoist her atop a short plateau. Her knees threatened to collapse, but she kept herself righted. Alayne took out her canteen before remembering she was out of water – she had been for a few hours now, a mixture of impatience and uncertainty dragging them onwards. Impatience to reach the town (and safety, perhaps?); and uncertainty that they might be attacked again. Twice now they’ve been blindsided. How many more until she finally reached whatever end she was going towards, she wasn’t sure.

            Alayne crouched, her breaths labored. That burning, aching fire flooding her muscles wasn’t as raging as last night, but every part of her felt moments from collapsing.

            Night was only minutes from completely engulfing the world, but there – lights twinkling off the black waters, a solitary boat swaying in the harbor, the smallest sounds of life reaching them – there was the town. They couldn’t have been more than two or three miles away. She couldn’t be sure, but Duskendale was maybe twice the size of Rosby and at least that many times more occupied.

            “Dawn, then.”

            Alayne turned to see Petyr crouched beside her, his fingertips gently brushing the earth for balance. He was staring towards the town, too, and Alayne wondered what was going on in his mind.

            She shoved her canteen back in her bag, fishing around for something to eat. “Can we rest for a bit at least? It’s dark.”

            He gave her an incredulous look, but even in the dim setting light Alayne could read the impatience etched there. “Of course. This spot should be good lookout to camp for tonight. Though ideally we’ll head out just before sunrise.” Petyr turned back towards Duskendale, his mind working through somethings Alayne couldn’t imagine.

            Alayne shuffled through her bag, feeling for the other half of bread from the morning. Something sliced at her finger.

            She swore. She pulled her hand out, sucking on the blood pooling there. She remembered seconds later how filthy she was.

            “Are you okay?” Alayne didn’t respond, working her tongue over the wound and trying not to think about the taste of dirt and sweat there. “Give me your hand, let me see how bad it is.”

            She did, as if by instinct.

            Alayne watched as Petyr took her hand in his, examining it. He wasn’t perturbed by the sheen of her saliva or the layers of filth that caked her skin and nails. Petyr trailed a finger in a loose circle around the cut – hardly an inch long, straight down the side of her index finger. The motion almost tickled; if only it hadn’t sent the beast coiled inside her chest to growl at the contact. “Should be fine,” he said, letting her go. “Shouldn’t be infected, but we’ll want to wash it out.”

            Alayne slowly brought her hand back to her, watching as Petyr dug through his bag for his canteen. She heard water sloshing in it before he unscrewed the lid and motioned for her to give him her hand again. He didn’t ask this time – waited, with one hand outstretched. Alayne gave it to him.

            She watched as Petyr carefully trickled water onto the cut, finding a clean spot of fabric of his shirt to tear off and wipe clean. He tore another clean strip, tying it around the wound in a firm knot. Petyr’s fingers – beneath his own callouses and dirt from two days of travelling through the woods – were gentle, soft.

            Petyr motioned to her bag with his head. “Did you nick yourself on your canteen? Or maybe a stale bit of bread?”

            It took her a few moments to register the question. She could see a smile on his lips – only on his lips – at his attempt of a joke. “Um, I… I’m not sure. It was sharp. _Really_ sharp.” Alayne used her good hand to hand the bag over to Petyr.

            He hadn’t looked in it for more than a second before realization dawned over him. Petyr continued to stare into the bag as he asked, “Alayne, do you trust me?”

            Was it really only two days ago that Petyr asked her the same question? Somehow, these two days felt longer. Nothing had happened save for walking and disappointment, but still – two days ago she had said yes.

            What about now? With what he’d done and said and _hidden_ from her. With the red smattered against the tree, and the clenched fists of Walder as he strode down the hill.

            Did she trust him? _Should_ she?

            Alayne toyed with the makeshift bandage, pressing onto the wound for no other reason than because it hurt. Was it more than a cut, she wondered. Was there _poison_ in it, seeping its way through her blood towards her heart.

            At least out here no one would find her body.

            Petyr had dug his hand into the bag, leaving it wrapped against whatever sat in there. Alayne tried to remember _what_ was in the bag – food and supplies and the like. A weapon? A way to leave her dead in the forest with no one around to hear her scream.

            “I…” _Don’t_ , the monster whispered. It had wriggled up from between her ribs into her head. She could feel its claws poking at her brain. _Don’t trust the man_.

            “Yes.”

            _Foolish girl_ , berated the voice inside her. _Stupid, foolish girl_.

            There was the slightest shift of muscle on Petyr’s face, long gone by the time she registered it. He pulled out his hand from her bag. In it was a long, sharp pair of scissors. Red stained its end.

            “Alayne,” he began, his fingernails scraping against the metal. Petyr carefully wiped her blood from its tine with the pad of his thumb, brushing the color onto his pants. Alayne noticed then it wasn’t the first speck of red there. “Please draw your hood down.”

            “Why?” If she was going to die, she wanted some answers.

            Petyr must have found something _amusing_ amongst the fear in her voice, because he cracked a smile. “Oh, no sweetling. This isn’t for your _neck_.”

            _My heart, then_.

            He continued: “The Towers found us because they were told to find a girl with long, red hair.”

            Alayne stared at him. She understood the reasoning behind his words, but something didn’t sit right with her. “Why hadn’t you cut it earlier? This morning, or yesterday?” _Before we were attacked_ , she didn’t say.

            That unnamed emotion flashed past Petyr’s eyes again, like the flickering shadow of a candle. So sudden, Alayne would have missed it if she blinked. “It’s a beautiful shade.”

            Shade? But if he meant to _cut_ it now, then all she would be was a girl with short red hair. Alayne’s gaze flickered towards the dots of lights northward. There were _people_ there, people who probably didn’t know her. But if Towers were there, or anyone else meaning to find her and drag her back to those dungeons…

            “I see. How do you plan to get rid of the _shade_?” She still couldn’t shake the way he said it: a beautiful shade. There was another unnamed emotion there, too. Alayne couldn’t help to run her fingers through the strands of hair peeking out beneath her hood. She saw, too, Petyr’s hands almost _itch_ as she did it.

            “I had hoped to dye it earlier, in Rosby. But that town was far more, ah, ransacked? poor?” He tried to find the word but failed. “They didn’t have the dye I thought they might.”

            “And Duskendale will?”

            Petyr shrugged. “Perhaps. More likely, at least. Further away from all the mess. At least from up here the town doesn’t look as destroyed.”

            Alayne glanced towards Duskendale again, counting the lights. There were almost twenty, spots of faded yellow against the black. “But how do you plan on getting me into town with _red_ hair?”

            When she looked back, Petyr had one hand in the dirt, collecting it into a neat pile beside his feet. “It’s not ideal or _clean_ , but it should do.”

            Alayne could remember the dungeon in slivers of memories – the festering refuse pooling at her feet, the bodies dead and dying and dripping of blood – and by comparison, dirt in her hair didn’t seem too terrible.

            Alayne sat on the dusty plateau, drawing her hood down and pulling her hair free from beneath her shirt. It was a tangled mess of red, dry and knotted and seeping in sweat. Alayne ran her fingers through the waves, from her scalp all the way down to the small of her back. It was longer than usual, she thought. She couldn’t remember her past, but there was the notion that Alayne’s hair had always been long and red. And _beautiful_.

            A girl with short brown hair. It could work. It _had_ to work, if they wanted to escape.

            She looked at Petyr and nodded her consent.

            He knelt behind her, running his fingers through her hair in lieu of a comb. Each time he ran into a knot – which was often – he carefully tried to work it free. Down and down Petyr’s fingers worked along her hair, finally reaching the ends. They lingered there, working at the knots and smoothing her hair against her back. Petyr worked silently but diligently, a rhythm of his fingers from scalp down, inch by inch, and back up and down again.

            But for what purpose? Most of her hair would be floating in torn strands against the night’s breeze. There was no reason for the effort of smoothing out the knots, no strategy to it – except Alayne didn’t say anything, instead letting him work. On his final run-through, his fingers seemed to scrape harder, tickling against her scalp and sending a shiver down her spine. Petyr paused, asking if he had hurt her. Alayne only shook her head, and he continued.

            She heard the metallic twang of the scissors. “You ready?”

            Perhaps he had been avoiding it as much as she had. There wasn’t much Alayne knew about her, but her hair was the only fragment of her identity she had.

            _A beautiful shade_ , she heard his voice echo in her head. She had to force her fingers from running through the lazy waves. Alayne nodded.

            The bottommost inches _snipped_ , catching on an errant breeze. Alayne watched as they danced with the dirt and grass, floating round and round until being swept away into the night.

            Petyr worked his way up her hair, cutting it off in sections. She knew, too, that he could have clipped her hair at her neck and been done with it in moments. And again – Alayne only sat in silence.

            “Now to dye it.”

            As Petyr mixed the dye: water and dirt. Alayne meanwhile couldn’t help but tangle her fingers in her hair. It was short, so short, not even falling near her shoulders. And light – her head seemed so much lighter without the dead waves falling from it. Alayne stared at the pile of shorn hair as Petyr gathered the dye into his fingers.

            As slowly as he cut her hair, Petyr worked the dirt into the strands. His fingers were rougher, _purposeful_. Carding the dirt through her hair again and again until surely no single strand of red remained.

            When he was finished, Alayne thought she heard the faintest whisper behind her: “The last of the wolves. Gone.”

            “What?”

            She turned to him, but Petyr ignored the question. He flushed water on his hands to clean them. “Try to get some rest, sweetling. I’ll keep watch.”

            She watched him make a circuit of the plateau, assessing their location and finding where someone might pop up in ambush. After a minute of watching, Alayne lied down, using her bag as a pillow. It was uncomfortable to be sure, the edge of her canteen digging into her cheek. A part of her tried to remember how she had fallen asleep yesterday. She could vaguely remember the ambush, and one of the Walder’s arms strangling her neck. But between that and waking up alone against a tree, there was nothing.        

            Alayne felt the makeshift bandage wriggle loose. She struggled to pry the knot off with her left hand, resolving to using her teeth to hold down one end. She knew it was going to be worse trying to re-tie it with one hand, but Alayne didn’t want to bother Petyr.

            Finally freeing the fabric, she was trying to figure out how to put it back with one hand–

            But the cut was gone. Only a thin jagged scar remained.

* * *

            Duskendale was actually larger than she had anticipated. There were some small settlements that dotted the coastline and others spread throughout the neighboring forest. Maybe there were regular people still living and earning their keep in those houses. Maybe there were watchers, waiting for the girl with long red hair to stumble past. Either way, Petyr steered them away from each as they moved.

            Compared to Rosby, Duskendale was huge. Every street twisted towards the ocean regardless of which direction one headed down. The cobbled stones were slick from the sea air and centuries of use, and it was difficult for Alayne to get used to walking on them. They were lined with businesses and homes, and they were all standing, beaten down from sun and water.

            And there were people, too. Some lay in the shadows of buildings – dead or alive depending on how cleanly-picked their skin was, or whether their eyeballs were still in place – but the majority were alive and thriving.

            It was barely dawn but people were out and about. The townspeople gave odd looks at them, but there was no inherent animosity like before. Alayne and Petyr were new and unknown, travelers through the town. Alayne and Petyr were not fugitives on the run. Alayne was not an escaped thing waiting to be brought back to her master.

            The dye was not perfect; it turned her hair more dirty brick than brown, but it worked. The townspeople were looking for a girl with long red hair, just as the Towers had been

            All they saw in Alayne was a plain, ordinary girl with dirty hair.

            “Give it to me free and I’ll promise to pay you next time I’m in town.”

            Petyr was haggling with a shopkeeper. Petyr – to Alayne’s knowledge – hadn’t money on him, or any goods worth trading. _Other than me_ , she thought.

            Alayne meanwhile was browsing through the small shop. It was set in a corner, unmarked, and near the edge of town. There were alchemical materials and filled vials set on racks, locked behind glass walls. There were some vials that Alayne swore she saw move.

            She turned to head back towards Petyr when a flash of shadow caught her eye. There, behind the solitary small window set between shelves was a man. A _boy_ , really, hardly any older than Alayne, with sandy hair. He was pressed to the edge of the window, peering in with hands around his eyes, attempting to hide and doing a terrible job at it.

            Alayne stared at him until he left his perch a few seconds later. _Perhaps he’s lost his mother_ , she thought. She found her feet and wound her way back to the counter.

            The shopkeeper had been adamant the entire time. A slew of _no nope never not for free_ had filled the quiet spaces of the shop as Alayne wandered through the rows. _And your son better not break anything_ , he had said too, keeping Alayne from touching anything. But Petyr, it seemed, finally wore him down. The man handed over two small vials of dark liquid, all with a certain amount of reluctance Alayne wondered on. She was sure Petyr had no intention of returning to pay his debt.

            Petyr gave the man a wink. “Thank you, my good friend. Your generosity won’t go unremembered.” He carefully wrapped the vials in a spare bit of clothing before setting it carefully in his bag. “You didn’t see either of us, and you don’t remember us, understand?”

            The shopkeeper bit the inside of his mouth, narrowed his eyes at Petyr, but nodded.

            They left, and Alayne couldn’t help but wonder if everyone relented to Petyr eventually.

            “Now where?” she asked after they rounded several blocks towards the coast. She could see strips of pinks and yellows lining the stones and walls as they went. Seagulls flew above, their cries echoing between buildings.

            Petyr had his hands clasped behind his back, walking without paying attention to where his feet fell. “Now we head towards the harbor.”

            Salty wind blew through the streets, tickling at Alayne’s neck. She moved to brush away her hair before remembering there was hardly any of it left.

            The crowds grew thicker the closer to the water they went. It took a great deal of shoving and _excuse us_ before they broke through onto the harbor. The boat she had seen swaying in the harbor last night now seemed so…strange up close. Almost like it had been dredged up from the bottom of the ocean, bits of slimy flora and coral sticking to the hull.

            But none of that held her attention as soon as she saw the people.

            Were they people? Creatures? _Things_? They had to be the crewmen, lugging boxes onto the ship and cleaning the hull of pesky barnacles. But their skin wasn’t any tone of flesh; it held a pale, almost sickly green color. And was it flesh? From afar, yes it looked it, but it shone wetly in the dawn’s light.

            And their heads – smooth, large, two large eyes set on either side, glimmering in the light. As Alayne and Petyr grew closer, Alayne thought she saw something else blink on the heads.

            “They’re…” Alayne began, her mouth hanging open. There wasn’t a _word_ to describe them.

            She could hear the smirk on Petyr’s lips at her confusion. “People, yes. Though admittedly it could be up for debate.”

            “But…”

            Petyr hailed one of them over. Alayne wanted to say _no, really, it’s fine, I don’t want to see them up close_ , but the person/creature was quick on its feet.

            “What?” it spat out. Its voice sound gurgled, as if speaking from beneath water.

            Alayne tried her best not to flat-out stare, but she couldn’t help it. Up close, Alayne could see a smaller pair of eyes, _human eyes_ , set close together just above a thin pair of human lips filled with small, sharp teeth. So many teeth – three rows of them, glistening and capable of tearing her neck into shreds.

            Each time Alayne made up her mind if the thing was a fish, there was something that made her think it was instead a human. And then it went the other way around, until Alayne was absolutely sure she wasn’t sure what exactly stood before them.

            Thankfully, it paid her no mind. Or, at least the human eyes were focused on Petyr. She wasn’t sure about the larger ones.

            Petyr seemed unfazed. “You sailing north?”

            The fish/person gave a curt nod. Alayne saw thin folds of gills at its neck.

            Petyr continued: “You’ve room for two more passengers? We’re heading north, too.”

            “We’re not a cruise ship,” it spat out. The voice sounded so foreign, so eerie.

            “And we’re not tourists.” It crossed its arms at Petyr’s unyielding. Between human fingers were fish webs. Petyr crossed his, too (though without the webs). “We need passage only to Gulltown, and if your ship is headed north, you’ll be passing through it anyways.”

            “We don’t want stowaways.”

            “We won’t be stowaways if you allow us passage. Then we’d be passengers. Now, how about a proposition?” The fish/person’s eyes narrowed, and Petyr took that as a _go on_. “I’m sure there is _something_ in this town you’ve been denied because of your being Krakens. If I can bring it to you before you set sail, you give us passage to Gulltown. If not, then you’ll never see us again.”

            It stared into Petyr for a few moments before looking behind him. Alayne tried to imagine what sort of _things_ it could want. Food and water and supplies? They had plenty of crates full of them, she thought.

            Finally, it turned its human eyes on Petyr again. “Women.” Alayne’s blood curdled. “The prettiest in the town, one for each of my men. Well, one less than that – my brother doesn’t need it anymore.” It gave a gurgled sort of laugh (at least, Alayne thought it was).

            Petyr offered his hand with a smirk. “Just give me a number and I’ll have you all the whores a ship could ever need.”

            That seemed to spark a wicked sense of solidarity in the fish/person. It took his hand, spoke its terms (Alayne was sure there were only half as many of them as the women it asked for), and Petyr promised he’d be back in ten minutes.

            “Wait,” Alayne grabbed his sleeve. She took him aside, whispering, “What am I supposed to do?”

            “You can either come with me to collect some whores, or wait for me to get back. I won’t be long.” He said that with a tilt of his lips.

            Alayne decided to stay, if only because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know _what_ Petyr had to do or say to get so many women to go blindly onto a ship full of those things.

            The _thing_ patted her shoulder. Alayne jumped, and it laughed again. “It’s okay, little fish. We won’t eat you. Unless your father doesn’t come back, then we might...”

            Alayne’s stomach fell. She knew the thing was trying to ease her, but with those endless rows of teeth twisted in a semblance of a smile, it was hard not to be afraid.

            Her brain also fell on what it said: _your father._ Alayne was about to deny it, but thought on it – her being Petyr’s daughter. Gods, she couldn’t imagine it in reality. There was something decidedly _not fatherly_ about Petyr, though Alayne didn’t have proof. It was a feeling, a certain uneasiness that set the coils inside her tighter. Nonetheless, it would be a good cover. Less people would question them if they were merely family and not fugitives.

            Alayne fidgeted with her fingers with the sleeves of her jacket. The breeze was harder on the harbor, and she could feel it winding its way through the fabric. “Um, what’s your name?”

            “Asha,” it said, sharp teeth shining in the sun. It sounded almost like a girls’ name, but nothing of it/her body gave it away. All of them looked the same. “And you, little fish?”

            She thought of giving her a fake name, but she couldn’t think of any. There was one, another A, on the tip of her tongue – but it flew away. “Alayne.”

            Asha caught Alayne staring at those razor teeth. “Little fish, don’t worry, I promise we don’t bite. Not unless we’re in bed and you ask me to.”

            The thing laughed its gurgled laugh as it went to observe its kin lugging supplies. Asha smacked one on the back and it nearly dropped the crate it was holding.

            “Ready sweetling?”

            Alayne startled, turning to see Petyr smiling. That was…less than ten minutes. And behind him, a long line of women in flimsy fabrics. Alayne tried not to look at their eyes.

            “You’ve made good on your word, and I’ll make good on mine,” Asha said with what Alayne imagined to be an incredibly ecstatic grin. It had eyed every single woman top to bottom, as if inspecting. Alayne had started to count them, but once she got halfway she realized Petyr more than fulfilled his bargain. She realized, too, that some of the women wore clothing not befitting a harbor town whore.

            “Of course. Only the best whores for the best sailors in all of Westeros.”

            Asha laughed at the blatant brown-nosing. She seemed to take a liking to Petyr. “We’ll be setting out soon, so if you or your daughter have things to be done, do it quickly.”

            The women were corralled onto the ship. Every Kraken had stopped what they were doing to watch the shameless line of lithe limbs and full breasts swagger on to deck. No one, it seemed, noticed a sandy-haired person swagger up who was decidedly not a woman.

            “We should find some supplies,” Petyr said as he motioned back into the throng of people. Alayne saw they made a wide route away from the Kraken’s ship. “The voyage shouldn’t be too long to Gulltown, but I’d much rather do that with more than the bare necessities.”

            Alayne followed behind him as they squeezed between bodies. “What about the, um, _red_?”

            Petyr glanced at her hair – either as a habit or to see whether any pesky strands refused to color last night, she wasn’t sure. Alayne noticed how quickly his eyes stayed now that it was all dirty waves. “We can wash and properly dye it on the ship. I’m sure after my _generous_ offer Asha wouldn’t mind providing a hot bath for you.”

            He wove his way through the crowds that were beginning to throng further into the streets as the sun rose ever higher in the pale blue sky. Alayne followed closely behind as they went into the various shops. Petyr told her to choose whatever she wanted or needed, and he would deal with getting them. Alayne wanted to argue, but her lingering stench trailed into her nose and she couldn’t imagine going weeks in the same clothes.

            On their way back, their bags bulging with supplies (none of which Petyr _actually_ paid for. He _dealt_ with the negotiations, like how he _dealt_ with the shopkeeper from earlier), Alayne remembered something. “Was it Asha that you planned to meet?”

            Petyr looked at her in confusion. “How do you mean?”

            “Your…friend? That we were meeting here?”

            His eyes held that unsureness before snapping open. “Oh. Ah, well, we took longer than expected to reach Duskendale, so I imagine my friend is long gone by now.”

            Alayne stared at him now with confusion writ on her face. Did his _friend_ even exist?

            Petyr seemed to read her unspoken worries. “We were meant to go westward through the country. My friend had orders to wait until last nightfall to lead us through. And if we didn’t show, he would leave without us.”

            Alayne felt guilty. She knew it was her fault, if only partially. If her body wasn’t so gods-damn weak, they could have made it earlier. Now they were stuck going the long-way, on a ship full of things with sharp teeth.

            “But this is better,” Petyr continued. They had to split around a large group of people – a family, perhaps.  “I’ve had, erm, plans up north that I’ve been postponing for a while. Now seems like the better time to deal with it.”

            She wasn’t sure if he meant it, or if he was merely thinking aloud.

            They continued back towards the harbor in silence, weaving in and out and around people. None of them paid any attention to the two – they were just people in the way of others.

            They had just made it back through the thick crowd at the edge of where the Krakens docked when Alayne thought she heard Petyr’s voice:

            “My daughter.”

            He was stared forward, his head held imperceptibly higher, the corners of his lips tilted upwards.

            Alayne shivered at the thought of somehow belonging to him, whether as family or something else. But more than that, she was sure she heard in those two words that telltale hint of _something_ that definitely wasn’t fatherly at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I hope you guys like this story! I know it’s A Lot and I take forever to get it written lol. Will I get the next chapter out at a reasonable time? We’ll see…]


	6. { vi }

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [So the answer to ‘will I get the next chapter out at a decent time’ is a resounding _no_. Oops. Work has been getting to me, not to mention I’ve also been plotting like 3 other fics...
> 
> Anyways – good shit going on. Things will start falling into place bit by bit (thanks for putting up with the confusion until now lol). And as always, much love to you for reading!! :) ]

 

            In favorable conditions, a naval voyage from Duskendale to Gulltown should have taken a day, Petyr had told her. Less than that, if the gods were kind enough to blow southwesterly winds to aid the sails out from the coast. With everything in alignment, it could even be as short as a few hours. Or, with the whole world fighting against them – the winds and the waves and countless undiscovered terrors lurking just beneath the water – it would have been just over two.

            It took a week. A _week_ – seven long, rocking days aboard the _Ironborn_. The Krakens, apparently, were in no rush to get to Gulltown.

            Perhaps it was the whispers of riches lying in hidden vaults on the small Claw Isle halfway to Gulltown. There they docked overnight, and chests were brought aboard, though Alayne never learned of the contents. Nor did she learn whether or not the treasures were just lying around in empty buildings, or if the Krakens slew whoever was there – women and children included. Alayne realized she didn’t want to know.

            Perhaps instead it was the endless debate whether to sack the other larger island of Dragonstone just out of sight. That name rang quietly familiar to Alayne, though why she couldn’t say. The crew finally decided against it, if only because as they drew near, an endless forest of masts surrounded the craggy rocks jutting from the island. Alayne tried to count them before the _Ironborn_ made a swift turn around, but she lost count. _Later_ , the captain had grumbled. The glint of hunger and anger washed over Asha’s large eyes as the black masts faded into the horizon.

            Perhaps - and Alayne thought this most likely – they thought that all the lovely women Petyr had _coerced_ aboard would leave as soon as he did. The Krakens never asked Petyr about _how_ he had done it – nor had Alayne. But the women, she realized, were incredibly eager to caress the leathery skin of the crew, or sit upon laps, or follow down deep into the ship’s dark rooms. Each day, the Krakens made sure to make liberal use of each and every woman aboard. Except Alayne, of course.

            Admittedly, Alayne’s curiosity tried to imagine how a fish/human hybrid could feasibly bed a human non-hybrid. There was no discernible difference between the male or female Krakens, assuming that they were human in that respect. There was no discernible _thing_ that the Krakens had to indicate gender like humans did – they moved around with nothing adorning their slick skin. Petyr had caught Alayne intently staring once, and she had to stammer out a lie about being intrigued by their unusual physiology rather than their animalistic urges. He only laughed.

            Asha made no more moves against Alayne, either, which the rest of the Krakens respected to mean that Alayne was off-limits. That didn’t mean the captain stopped teasing Alayne. She seemed to do it more often whenever two (or at one time, three) of the whores sat on her spread legs, stroking over the willowy fabrics they wore. She was kind, the captain, if not intrigued by the odd pair of humans in her cargo. Still, the captain’s eyes (both the fish and the human sets) roved over Alayne with a wicked curiosity of her own, sometimes mimicked in a wicked smile of sharpened teeth.

            Somehow, Asha’s didn’t carry the same unnamed hunger in the ones Petyr gave her.

            There was one Kraken who didn’t leer at her though (with either pair of eyes). Alayne ran into him on their first day as she watched the sun slowly set towards the horizon, setting the rocking waves awash in fire. The world was painted in life – of reds and oranges in the sky, of blues and glittering yellows below. Alayne closed her eyes and let the sun soak into her skin. She was cold, she realized. She was always cold – cold and tired and filled with an unknown feeling of grey.

            A noise jerked her attention. The Kraken stood there, against the railing, only a few paces away. He was staring, watching, observing her. Alayne stared back.

            His eyes were impossibly sad.

            She remembered him from the harbor. The captain had singled him out – as a brother, was it? It was hard to say, they all looked so alike. But Alayne didn’t miss how the warm grey of his large eyes mimicked that of Asha’s. And the skin, the same blue-green hue of the deep sea. Yes – this must have been Asha’s brother, though his name eluded her.

            As they continued to stare at each other in silence, Alayne couldn’t help but think the thin line of his lips looked more human than the rest of the Krakens. She noticed, too, fainter lines crossing over his mouth, and face, and down along his body. Alayne would not have recognized them if she didn’t see those same lines on her own body, everywhere. She couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps behind the leathery fish skin was a normal human like her. Or if perhaps behind down-turned lips were unsharpened teeth.

            He reached out a webbed hand towards her, sunlight dancing along the translucent skin between long fingers. He held it there, halfway between them, a question frozen on his lips.

            Alayne didn’t get the chance to answer whatever the question was. As quick as the Kraken appeared, he had left. Only the breeze kept her company. It sent short strands tickling her cheeks, it sent the salty tang of ocean and freedom coursing through her. She stood there on the deck, staring out into the seemingly-endless expanse of the world, until night completely engulfed the colored sky.

            Apart from that evening, Alayne had also spent their first few hours on deck, leaning against the stern railing and watching Duskendale shrink into an unrecognizable line. She wondered if she would ever see the town again, and its strange people.

            “Enjoying the view, sweetling?”

            Alayne startled. She had forgotten Petyr was with her, leaning his elbows against the railing only an arm’s length away. He had joined her before the _Ironborn_ had set sail, making some silent joke about checking for stray dogs on the harbor. Petyr laughed, but his eyes flitted across the moving bodies below. Then they cast off, and watched the land fade into nameless shapes. An hour had gone by in comfortable silence, the rolling of the ship and salty air easing Alayne’s mind. She hadn’t thought much – had enjoyed the relative peace and the soft rocking of the boat. Now that her mind and body were back together, Alayne missed the gentle emptiness of thoughts and fears. Deep inside her, that grey thing prowled about.

            Petyr was smiling at her though his eyes focused on the fading town. She could see the unease writ on his face, no matter how much he tried to hide it with the false smiles tilting his lips.

            He was _looking_ for something, she thought. What or who, she couldn’t say.

            When she turned back, Duskendale had disappeared completely. There was nothing in her world except the boat and the ocean and the uncertain trust between her and everyone aboard.

            Alayne couldn’t help but wonder if she was truly safer on sea than on land.

            The rest of the journey was spent in their cabin, a cramped thing with two beds set into the wooden walls. From her bed, she could take a single, long stride before she reached the opposing wall. There was a porthole, though lying on her bed angled only the endless expanse of water into her vision.

            Alayne might have been enjoying the freedom and newness of a life at sea on her first day, but her stomach was not fond of the rolling motion. As much as she would have loved spending the week pressed against the railing, admiring the ocean and the specks of land jutting just above the horizon; or exploring the nooks and crannies of the ship, above and below decks - whatever cloud of grey haze remained in her system kept her confined below deck. She had herself and an interminable tiredness for company. Oftentimes she traced those countless lines crossing her skin. They caught the light reflecting in through the porthole – sometimes Alayne thought her body was a snapshot of lightning.

            They had barely finished supper their first evening when the _Ironborn_ lurched to a halt. Alayne’s stomach did, too. Asha stormed in with twin pistols strapped to her wrists and a faithful group of Krakens behind her. Instead of announcing they had arrived at Gulltown, she called for any able-bodied Krakens to join her on a raid of Claw Isle.

            Only a fraction of the crew remained to watch the ship. Alayne and Petyr weren’t invited to charge the island, though she was sure if they would have been allowed. Or, if they were, that Alayne would only have been a causality. Beneath the soft lapping of waves against the hull, she heard the coupled sounds of gunfire and screams.

            Petyr strode past her table in the hall, asking Alayne to meet him in their cabin. When he returned ten minutes later, one of the Duskendale whores was straining under the weight of a full tub of warm water. Alayne saw the red skin of the woman’s arms and stomach, though the woman said nothing of the pain – didn’t seem to acknowledge it.

            “Thanks, Bertha,” he said as he ushered the woman out. And much quieter: “Don’t speak of this to anyone. Say you got in an accident if they ask about your arms.” The door closed, and Bertha’s light steps faded away.

            Alayne, meanwhile, was pretending not to hear, watching tendrils of steam dance across the water.

            Petyr dug through his pack, finding the wrapped vials of brown hidden beneath the rest of the items they _acquired_ in Duskendale. He weighed one in his palm – it was hardly longer than his thumb, but twice as wide. The liquid moved lazily, sticking to the glass walls as the vial leapt from one hand to the other.

            He was still looking at it when he asked, “Do you need help washing your hair, Alayne?”

            She tore her gaze from the vial and stared into the ceiling reflected across the water’s surface. Alayne traced the edges of the tub, feeling the rust catch under her fingernails. She wondered if the Krakens bothered with bathing, or if they just jumped into the ocean and scrubbed at their skin with seaweed. She hadn’t seen it, so maybe.

            The tub was large – large enough to completely submerge a child. To drown that child without it ever making a fuss. Or, large enough for someone with a thinning body to sit scrunched up in. Uncomfortable, head resting against the edge, feet pressing into the corners, naked.

            Alayne chipped a large bit of rust with her thumb. “I can wash it myself.”

            It was easier with her hair so short. She watched the dirt cloud the water, watched as she gradually lost sight of the blue eyes peeking at her, blinking back at her.

            Her arms grew tired as she made her final pass through her hair, scratching at her scalp. Alayne had remembered halfway through about the bar of soap – broken into pieces at the bottom of her bag – and lathered it into her hair. The sharp clean scent filled her nose. It smelled like mint.

            When she had finished, Alayne leaned against the now-cold tub, her wet hair falling behind her, drops dripping into the water, and closed her eyes. She hoped to fall asleep, to skip the motions and feel of his fingers through her hair again. Alayne hoped, more than that, that Petyr couldn’t hear the confusion coiling inside her, or the shadowy beast that growled whenever he was near.

            She heard the quiet _pop_ of the vial’s stopper. Heard the soft rustle of his clothes as he bent beside her. Felt the cold liquid fall onto her scalp, one side to the other. And then – with the same reluctance on his part as last night – the slow, sure working of his fingers across her hair.

            By the time he was finishing the ends, Petyr finally spoke. He said that she should get some rest, and that he would deal with getting rid of the dirty water.

            There were a lot of things – so many things – that Petyr happened to _deal with_ , Alayne thought. The shadowy voice in her head told her that she was one of those things, too. That he was only _dealing_ with her until he had no use.

            She wondered when that would be. And when Petyr was finished, how he would he dispose of her. Like the Walders? Like Bertha? Or someone else, someone who met a more unkind end.

            Alayne shuddered.   

            Petyr snuck the tub out without fuss, and Alayne faced the wall as she tried to sleep, shivering beneath her cold hair. Nobody bothered them that night – it wasn’t until the moon was high in the black canvas above did the Krakens return with bawdy cheers and arms leaden with loot. They took turns celebrating with the women until the sun was nearing the break of ocean and sky.

            But besides dying her hair, Petyr hardly spent time with Alayne. She wasn’t sure if she was grateful for it, or disappointed.

            She did wake up in the middle of the night once, Alayne remembered, and thought she felt the ghost of fingers combing through her hair. But she wasn’t sure if she imagined it or not.

            So she spent her days in quiet loneliness. Alayne broke her fast, returned to her cabin alone, and watched the sea change colors from the small window. She would stare at the light teal of morning, sleep, and awake to the dark sapphire of midday, sleep (or eat), and awake to water set ablaze with the setting sun. It wasn’t at all how she planned to spend her days aboard the _Ironborn_. But by the end of their week, Alayne’s strength was returning. She did paces to and from the porthole, trying to fight the grey fatigue that wound itself around her body. The long trek from one side of the cabin to the other was hardly comparable to the endless miles they trekked from Rosby to Duskendale. But Alayne noticed she wasn’t out of breath as quickly, or her lungs weren’t on fire.

            There was no telling what to expect when they made it on land again. No telling who would ambush them, or try to kill her, or whether or not she would be dragged back to that gods-forsaken prison to rot again.

            Alayne wanted to be ready for if that time came. And she prayed to the gods she would be.

            The last day she awoke to grey outside the window. Such a soft, innocent hue that blanketed the entire world outside. It stung her eyes to stare at for too long.

            Whispers of an autumnal storm filled the dining hall, quiet fears that the storm would rend the ship apart before they reached Gulltown. They were close, Alayne found out. They should reach the port mid-afternoon – so long as the storm didn’t reach them first.

            As she reluctantly nibbled on stale bread and hardtack – there had been fresh fruits and fish ransacked from Claw Isle, but those stores ran out yesterday – Alayne glanced at the Krakens striding out of the hall with their breakfast still weaseling down throats. The winds were picking up, the ship’s rocking sending plates sliding along tables and errant food rolling along the floor. Alayne stopped eating – she hadn’t thrown up yet, and didn’t plan to. She stuffed the leftover bread in her pocket, moving to head down to her cabin.

            The neat black coat whipped as he turned the corner just behind the Kraken. She could hear the captain’s rough voice amidst the movement of the crew and wind.

            Alayne stared at the opposite end of the hall. She hadn’t questioned _how_ Petyr spent his days on board, hadn’t even thought of it. But now her mind was flashing the past weeks before her. How reluctant Not-Walder was to stand guard for them. How simply the shopkeepers complied and gave them goods free of charge. How easily he convinced a brothel-full of women to clamber aboard a ship full of _things_ without a single word of fear.

            She wished she looked in their eyes – wished she noticed the fear that had to be present in them.

            She was more worried for Asha than for Petyr.

            Alayne shuffled between the tables and Krakens on her way over, tiptoeing over plates and goblets and an apple core rolling along the floor. One moment she leaned right, the other left, and back – the ship was rocking dangerously now. Alayne was losing sense of which direction was truly down. She pushed through the doors onto the deck.

            Wind stung at any exposed flesh. It was cold, freezing, slicing skin in thin, sure strokes. Alayne stumbled her way across the deck, dodging Krakens hoisting lines and yelling commands in words that mixed with the roar of nature in her ears. She glanced up – the sky hadn’t fallen yet, but was close. All she could see was an endless field of grey, casting the entire world in muted tones.

            The ship rolled beneath her, her feet failing her.

            She stumbled, trying to find footing. The boat was shifting left and right, so fast, one way and the other, there was no way to gage which way to lean.

            Alayne kept her body low as she hobbled towards the other end of the ship. She thought she saw a door closed. She thought she saw the shadows of people in front of her, the mimic of voices on the wind whipping against her head.

            She fell again, a few paces from the door. There was blood in her mouth, that sharp taste of iron. She tried to stand but failed, crawling instead towards the door. Inside – she needed to get inside. To safety. Krakens were yelling words she couldn’t discern, nature was howling in full fury because Alayne was alive. Yes – Alayne should be dead. Her body should be rotting in the dark prison filled with blood and refuse and molding corpses.

            Words, she heard. “…won’t stop looking…” Only snippets. “…kill everyone…” Yelling against the storm. “…formula…”A voice she wasn’t sure of. “…no where safe…”

            Her fingers brushed the door when the sky exploded.

            The ship tilted again, her body rolling towards the railing. She tried to grab onto the floor, her nails cracking against the planks. Rain poured down and down and down, a thunderous roar in her ears. She was screaming, or tried to. Her leg caught on something, turned warm, hot. A flash of light – she looked forward and saw the sky. Heard the deafening scream of nature calling for her death.

            A scream – hers? The ship lurched back again, and Alayne fumbled to grab onto the mast. It was slippery, her fingers were numb. She did, she held on and pulled herself towards it.

            A scream – not hers. That she knew. Alayne looked around, water and hair clouding her vision. Everything was dark and grey and wet and – blinding, lightning searching, looking for her.

            The scream wasn’t hers. She saw someone hanging off the railing, heard their tears among the endless rain.

            They were dead. She was dead.

            When the boat tilted towards the person, Alayne scrambled towards the railing. Pain shot up her leg, her fingers. Her brain was shouting: _don’t, stop, let them die_.

            Alayne grabbed the cold, slippery metal just as the ship gave way. She was hanging, her arms hurt, her body was screaming to let go and end it.

            Back it tilted. Alayne hugged the railing with one hand and reached over with her other. Water ran into her eyes, she couldn’t see. She tried to feel for them, pushing herself further over the edge. There? No, more down, more to the left. Close, so close. Alayne could feel the faint wisp of flesh as they tried to reach for her too. A little further, a little further–

            There. Fingers were slick with water and fear. They grabbed on higher, her wrist, pulling, tugging, crying for help and _please_ and _thank_ _you_ and _don’t_ _let_ _go_.

            Alayne tried to pull, to help, her arms were so weak. Her body was screaming, she was screaming. Everything was loud and cold and numb. Still she pulled, still she tried to help.

            The boat lurched, sending the person higher, towards her, and Alayne chanced letting go of the railing to grab with both hands. She pulled, her feet slipping on the deck.

            They fell on top of her, on top of her leg that was already screaming and burning. They were screaming, too: thank you thank you thank you.

            Alayne shoved them off, seeing only pale skin and dark hair and dark clothes. Their hands were grabbing onto her. They were cold and stiff and crying.

            _Let’s get inside_ , she thought she yelled over the storm.

            Alayne grabbed them, grabbing onto something to hold to, moving towards where she thought the door was. Or the mast – they could hold on until the storm let go.

            _I’m sorry_ , someone said.

            Alayne’s feet tripped beneath her as she tumbled over the railing.

            The water below was freezing. Cold – so cold, she couldn’t feel anything. Her fingers and toes, her arms and legs, her chest, her head, her heart.

            All of it, in a matter of seconds, all of it became a blur of nothing.

            Alayne watched the surface above her float further away, away.

            On and on she fell.

            Into darkness.

* * *

            Alayne was dead.

            That much she knew for sure.

            Nature, the gods – everything wanted her dead.

            She would see her family again, at least.

            She would _remember_ her family again. Their faces, their laughter. The way things used to be, the ways things should always have been.

            Alayne smiled as she let the grey consume her.

* * *

            Black. Everything was black, empty.

            _Hello_ , she called out.

            _Hello_ , came her voice, smaller and smaller until it too become nothing.

            Was this one of the heavens or one of the hells?

            Alayne didn’t know which one she belonged to.

* * *

            Alayne felt the burning pain first. A hot, throbbing thing somewhere on her.

            A _crack_.

            A scream.

            Was there pain in the afterlife?

            If there was, it faded into the darkness, like everything else.

* * *

            She was cold. Her whole body a frozen thing, an unalive thing.

            She would be warm if she was alive.

            _Alayne_ , someone called to her. Someone? Herself? It echoed over and over in the darkness. _Alayne Alayne Alayne_.

            There was a press of warmth among the cold.

            But the cold crept over her, inside her, until there was nothing but the numbness consuming her as she fell and fell into the darkness.

            A faint light above, high above, on the other side of where she was.

            She tried to reach it. Her fingers stretched towards that speck of grey in the black. She was so far away.

            Alayne saw the light distort between her fingers. Saw the skin there catch it, hold on to it. Alayne grabbed a fistful of water and pulled herself up.

            Up and up.

            Towards the light.

* * *

            The world was louder and colder than she remembered.

            Shouting and wind and the rumbling of feet across the deck – towards her, away. Someone was calling her name.

            Alayne coughed up water, her entire body was full of it. Wet and cold and wet.

            Whatever was wrapped around her was warm and slick. It moved, short, quick motions away from the roar of nature outside. They made it through the door, down the stairs and halls. She lost track of where they were.

            A _slam_ of wood against wood. Shuffling of limbs – hers and others – a dance of cold flesh and warm skin.

            Alayne felt the soft warmth of blankets and things wrapped around and around her. She was still cold, so cold. Slowly, her body was lifted up onto the short shelf of her bed, onto the thin blankets there. She shivered, curled up, and shivered some more.

            She cracked her eyes open, staring through the foggy water left behind her eyelids.

            She saw pale teal skin and grey eyes staring back at her. They were full of things: of sadness, of fear, of recognition.

            His cold, leathery skin brushed against her hands, her neck. She felt the scrape of nail against her skin.

            He left without a word, and Alayne drifted into sleep.

* * *

            When she awoke, the world was warm and quiet.

            There was light somewhere beyond her eyelids, though she didn’t have the energy to look. And there were sounds, faint but there. Shuffling of feet, murmurs of voices, the slow creak of wood groaning against the waves.

            The ship was still. The world ummoving.

            Finally Alayne peeked her eyes open.

            She could see _life_ through the porthole. There wasn’t an endless sea of blue or grey – there were browns and greens and whites and yellows. People walked past off in the distance, and beyond them, low, white houses glittered in the sun. Between them sat trees, tall things reaching high towards the sky and out of sight of the window.

            She wanted to cry.

            “What happened?”

            Alayne continued to look outside. She didn’t want to think of the storm and the water and drowning. Drowning – she was so close to letting the ocean fully consume her.

            “Theon said you had fallen. He dragged you out of the waters.” A pause. “Why were you outside, Alayne?”

            _Why_ had she been outside? _Why_ had she fought against nature, and fallen into the cold embrace of the water?

            Ah.

            Alayne slid her vision away from the harbor beyond and found Petyr sitting on a simple chair. He leaned against the opposite wall – only a few feet away. She could _feel_ the roiling emotions seeping off of him. There was anger, so much of that. And impatience, at her not speaking. And disappointment, maybe, for her being so _foolish_. Concern was also a possibility, a small thing hidden beneath the rest, but it was so hard to tell.

            All Alayne could see was the anger. So much anger.

            She didn’t want that directed at her.

            Alayne watched as he gnawed at the inside of his cheek. She found her voice, and hoped it sounded true: “I was curious.”

            “About?”

            She didn’t answer. _About you, and why exactly you’ve been schmoozing your way about the ship. What do you want from them, from the world, from me?_

            She didn’t say anything.

            Petyr leant forward, elbows on his knees. He put on a smile, but it was only for show. They were only ever for show. “Did you fall, Alayne? Or did someone push you?”

            Yes? No? Alayne wasn’t even sure. There was someone she saved, she thought. There was the rain and the lightning and the wind. And then there was cold air before cold water.

            And then death.

            She tried to remember the face of the shadow she saved. Tried to name them, tried to see past the rain and wind. _I’m sorry_ , they said.

            Maybe that’s all it was – a shadow.

            “I… I was looking for you,” Alayne finally mumbled out. “But I fell.”

            A knock. Petyr didn’t have the time to snarl _get out_ before the door swung open. And just like that – the anger, the impatience, the disappointment – the Petyr that greeted Asha was not the Petyr that demanded answers.

            “How is your _daughter_?” the captain asked. She leaned against the threshold, arms crossed. Alayne stared at the greyness in her eyes. There was a roiling sea of emotion there, too. Not entirely unlike those Alayne saw in Petyr moments before.

            Petyr’s voice sounded like a smile. “Alive, thank the gods. My endless thanks to your brother for saving her.”

            Asha nodded a _you’re welcome_ , but those small, grey eyes narrowed on Alayne. Not on her face, but on the hand that gripped the blanket to her neck. Alayne couldn’t help but glance at her fingers, and saw nothing unusual.

            “Now,” Petyr stood, clasping his hands behind his back. “About our conversation from earlier–”

            “No.”

            Petyr’s grip tightened. He cocked his head at the captain. “No?”

            Asha’s human eyes darted to Petyr. She kept her pose casual, but Alayne thought at any moment the Kraken could lunge and strangle him.

            Alayne wondered if Petyr knew that too.

            He smiled. “Perhaps we could negotiate…?”

            “You’ve brought that _thing_ here, and her dogs will be looking for us, too.”

            “Yes, but–”

            “But nothing,” Asha cut him off. “She’s already murdered to rest of my people. Already ruined the Greyjoy name. She wants to eradicate everyone who isn’t like _her_. Damn the gods – mine and yours and everyone’s – if I give the last piece of our people to you.” She turned her eyes on Alayne, and Alayne heard the unspoken words: _to you, and that thing_.

            Alayne watched Petyr think, watched his fingers drum against the backside of the other hand. He kept his gaze on the captain, but behind it his mind had to have been working through the ifs and buts and endless possibilities.

            He could _force_ her to give him…whatever _it_ was. Like the shopkeepers in Duskendale, like whoever else unfortunately crossed paths with Petyr.

            Or… Alayne imagined the worst. Imagined a silent, slow-burning command for the captain to tear apart her own ship and people and leave no Kraken left alive. The end of them from the world.

            Asha must not have known whatever sort of _gift_ Petyr possessed that made him horribly persuasive. If she had, Petyr would have been thrown overboard, too, with no Kraken willing to save him.

            “Alright.”

            Both Asha and Alayne stared at Petyr in disbelief. He continued: “But if I may ask, can my daughter thank the Kraken that saved her? A small bit of gratitude for a life kept.”

            Asha mulled the question over whilst Alayne mulled over Petyr’s continued use of their farcical relationship. There was no point, not after Asha saw through whatever their true relationship was. Whatever Alayne truly was.

            _A thing_.

            It echoed in her mind in a million voices, none of which sounded like hers.

            “Fine,” the captain spat out. She grabbed a passing Kraken and asked it to bring her brother to her. She stood watching Petyr while they waited, not willing to leave him (and Alayne) alone.

            The quiet Kraken approached, his head tilted down. Asha didn’t leave him alone with them.

            Alayne sat up, her mind rolling inside her head. She felt surprisingly okay – despite the near-death and the ocean that she swallowed. And despite the leg she remembered cracking. The fiery pain, gone. She _shouldn’t_ be okay, and yet she was.

            “Thank you.” She tried to make her voice strong, but the words cracked. And then, Alayne struggled to remember the name Petyr used for him. “Theon. Thank you, Theon, for saving my life.”

            The Kraken didn’t look at her with those sad, grey human eyes. Theon didn’t look at Petyr, either. He seemed to _avoid_ having to look at the man. Theon gave a shallow, meek nod at her thanks. Sensing that was all required of him, he left.

            Asha’s voice was the opposite: loud, demanding. “Get off my ship, and stay the hells away from us.”

            They shucked their bags and left. Every Kraken they passed stared at Alayne – or so she thought. It felt like it, she felt their stares. She thought she heard them mumbling to each other: _she shouldn’t be alive_.

            She shouldn’t be.

            But something was keeping her alive. Someone.

            Alayne stared at the back of Petyr’s head as they descended into Gulltown. The people paid them no mind – they were human, after all – but the Krakens they left behind on the _Ironborn_ gathered their attention. Alayne wondered if the women from Duskendale left the ship, too. Kicked out, seen now as a tainted gift from a tainted _thing_. She didn’t have the energy to look back and check.

            They wove through the harbor streets, dodging bodies and animals and carts leaden with goods. There were more people than in Duskendale or Rosby. A proper city, with a healthy population. Only a handful of people lay in the shadows of buildings, dead and dying. So unlike the towering pile of bodies in Rosby. So unlike the withering corpses in that grey prison.

            Petyr stopped, and Alayne nearly crashed into him. She tried to see if there was something _important_ or _dangerous_ in their way, but all there were were people bustling about. Wind whistled through the long fronds of the trees.

            That mixture of emotions from this morning vanished. Petyr carried an air of someone whose life wasn’t just threatened by inhuman creatures. “Now that we’re in Gulltown, Alayne, how about we visit your family?”

            She glanced at him in her periphery.

            Her family was _dead_. Alayne couldn’t remember much, but that vision of blood-splatted snow filled her dreams. It was all of her past that her mind had salvaged.

            Did he mean instead for Alayne to _join_ her family? Was this it? The end of her usefulness to him. Should she have let the cold waters embrace her instead of patiently waiting for whatever end Petyr deemed fit for a _thing_ like her.

            She looked around. At the unfamiliar faces, at the stout buildings, at the mountains soaring off in the distance. Alayne was alone, in the world and in her mind.

            What choice did she have?

            When she looked back at Petyr, he was staring at her with an amused tilt to his lips.

            “Of course,” she said, mimicking his smile. Like him, it never touched her eyes. Alayne was trying to sound not at all terrified. Trying to sound not at all like her life was held firmly in the grip of a complete stranger. One false step, one word spoken out of turn against him – and Petyr would crush her between his fingers.

            What even was she to him?

            _A thing_ , repeated the voice in her head.

            _His daughter_ , came another voice.

            To cement the lie, for her and for him, she added: “Father.” It felt wrong, _tasted_ wrong in her mouth.

            The smile on Petyr’s lips grew, and it sent fear shivering down her spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [So, um, this chapter was not at all how I planned it. To be honest, none of this was in my original plot, so it was a surprise even for me lol. But! – I hope you guys liked it! Things are going to start getting wilder, and questions will be getting answered.
> 
> Fingers crossed I get the next chapter up sooner than this one lol]


	7. { vii }

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I just want to give a big Thank You to all of your for reading and leaving kudos/comments!! I know I’m slow at getting this story written, but I love every single one of you for sticking with me :)  
> (On the other hand, Word can go to hell for constantly crashing on me :)))]

 

            Alayne wanted to go home.

            She looked around the city – at the ships swaying softly in the harbor; at the crowds of people ambling along the docks, making their way towards the city proper; at the high stone wall surrounding Gulltown, protecting it. Short houses of white plaster sat at the foot of it. The fronds of tall, thin trees danced against the dirty stones, feeling for their own way through.

            Ships creaked in the dock, and Alayne glanced back to see if she could spot the _Ironborn_ amongst them. She thought she did, between two larger and gaudier ships. Thought she spied the sail of black and gold. Thought she spied that pale ocean skin on people. Alayne thought of grey eyes – a pair frightened to even look at her, and a pair seething with hatred towards whatever she was. _A thing_.

            They queue at the back of an almost-line, a haphazard thing of people anxiously shifting their weight. Guards were stationed at the high gate leading into the city: a narrow sliver of passage against the bleak brown and grey stones. As they approached, Alayne could make out the mold that was creeping up and up along the wall. The squat houses were kept away from the entrance gate, but the bodies of the dead and dying weren’t. They looked _infected_ , she thought. Not with something Alayne knew, and not entirely like the people of Rosby and Duskendale. She wasn’t close enough to make out their affliction, but whatever it was crawled across each of them. Crabs skittered across the dirt and along the bodies. She felt Petyr pull her away from the dying.

            When they had finally made it to the front of the line, dawn was long gone and the warmth of the sun fought against the brisk harbor air. The guards gave a moment’s glance towards Petyr before their eyes fell heavily on Alayne. The warmth vanished; the air stung at the pale skin at back of her neck. The air whispered _She’s a fake, she’s not real_. Alayne’s fingers itched to rub at where her hair used to be – the real hair, the long auburn tresses.

            Would they know? They had to. The guard on the left squinted his gaze, as if trying to place her face. Did they know her? They had to – they were here to collect her. To drag her back to that gods-forsaken prison and make sure she couldn’t escape this time. Like the Towers – only Alayne hoped these guards’ intention stopped at capture.

            Between the cloying whispers in her mind, Petyr merely said, “She’s mine.” The guards’ eyes shot towards the next people in line, and they were through.

            _You foolish girl_ , came that companionable voice inside her.

            On their way through the winding streets and crowded throngs of Gulltown, Petyr casually mentioned that this was her home. But it didn’t feel like it. The people and buildings and the dirt road – none of it brought that comforting sense of _home_. Alayne realized that Gulltown was as much her home as Alayne was Petyr’s daughter. As much as the short brown hair was truly hers.

            _Lies and lies and lies_.

            Alayne wondered if the man ever spoke the truth.

            But the thought of home, of her _real_ home, sent a shiver through her. It was colder than the breeze that wound its way over the wall and through the streets, colder than the waters she nearly drowned in…yesterday? The day before? It all seemed a blur.

            Gods she wished she could remember her home. Her family. Herself.

            “Are you feeling better, sweetling?” Petyr asked as they traveled further into the heart of Gulltown. They had passed through the market district, passed the stalls of vendors calling out their wares and passed the carts of goods, some of which Alayne hadn’t seen before. Odd-looking fishing. There were new scents, sharp and sweet. And there were the common smells of towns: the dust kicked up by passersby, the festering odor of refuse on the side of the streets. Foods and spices and fabrics – all of it familiar, and all of it strange.

            “Yes…father,” she replied. Of all the strange things today, that was still the strangest. The word tickled her tongue. Petyr, she thought, was still smiling in amusement.

            “And what about…” he paused, trying to find the words. “Do you still feel that same… _weight_ as in Rosby?” When Alayne cast him a confused look, Petyr elaborated: “I imagine it feels like your suffocating, or perhaps a hand inside you squeezing tight and tight.”

            Alayne thought on it. And no – as the days passed on aboard the _Ironborn_ , she felt that unnamed weight lift. Slowly, the grey pressure of whatever had been running through her body evaporated, leaving behind veins coursing with blood and lungs filled with fresh air. She had thought it – the weight – was the drugs that kept her complacent and sluggish. It must have been. “No, I’m feeling better. Still tired, but better.”

            Petyr smiled, though more to himself. “Good, good.” Alayne didn’t see it reach his eyes.

            Soon, the dirt turned to stone beneath her feet. The buildings grew taller with every street they passed, too, and through them Alayne couldn’t make out the other side of the wall that surrounded the city. Assuming it did. But high above and far away to the north were mountains upon mountains. Their peaks were sharp, a deep brown contrasting with the pale sky. A few clouds streaked the blue, scampering behind jagged browns.

            Though that grey weight was gone, her body still hadn’t fully recovered its strength. Alayne was trying not to fall behind Petyr, which wasn’t difficult when people were packed tightly along the path, and maneuvering between them was slow going. But with the town growing larger, and the crowds of people scarcer, Petyr moved with an almost impatient gait.

            Alayne tripped, her knee scraping against a corner of stone. She hissed.

            It hadn’t hurt _that_ much, but any rest was welcome at this point. They hadn’t stopped to fill their supplies when they passed through the market, either, and Alayne’s throat was coarse. Instead, she asked with a hand pressed against her knee: “What sort of people _are_ my family?” _My real family_ , she almost added.

            Petyr wound his way back to Alayne, crouching beside her. He stared at the dirt covering her pants, but didn’t offer to help like he had with the scissors. “They are…an interesting sort. What’s left of them, anyway.”

            Alayne heard bitterness in Petyr’s words. But there was a question bubbling inside her, floating up and up: _How many of my family are left? Am I the only one?_ It grew and grew until it had a pressing weight of its own. She had to know. She wanted to. She didn’t. Alayne felt bitterness in her heart – bitter at getting her hopes up. Better to assume he was lying, she thought. Better to assume she was the only one left. It wouldn’t hurt as much when the truth came out.

            She settled for a part-question, and hoped to at least get a part-truth in reply. “How exactly are these interesting people related to me?”

            Petyr responded slowly, as if dragging his words from some unreachable place in his head. “An aunt. A very _interesting_ aunt, to say the least. And technically more related to you than I am.”

            “Hm,” was all Alayne gave in reply. She worked at brushing the dirt off, slowly, not wanting to move quite yet. A crab the size of her palm skittered along the curb. It debated crawling towards her and inspecting her injury, too. Instead, Alayne watched it until it slunk into the shadows. “How much further?” She shifted her gaze back to Petyr. “Are they _in_ Gulltown?”

            Petyr’s eyes still fell on her leg, but Alayne was sure his mind was miles and miles away. Thinking, plotting. She watched as his finger tapped against his own thigh, a quick beat, a beat to match the flurry of thoughts in his head. Finally, he answered, emotion lacking in his words: “Of course, sweetling. Just because you’ve left Gulltown doesn’t mean they have. Oh, and Alayne,” Petyr stood, reaching out a hand for her. “Word of warning – your aunt, ah, doesn’t know about you.”

            _More lies_. “I see.”

            When she felt ready to move again, they continued their way through the city. They walked in silence, Petyr still far away inside himself. Noises of the harbor faded into the background.

            This time, as they wound through the streets approaching the city center, Alayne noticed the bodies. Outside the city proper, they were few. _Ordinary,_ perhaps. Less than Rosby. Inside the city, behind the further reaches of the buildings and out of sight of the main road, they outnumbered the bodies of Rosby and the prison combined. She hadn’t heard them before, hadn’t seen them, and wondered how she couldn’t given the _quantity_. And now, she couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop noticing. All Alayne saw wherever she turned was their tortured masses piled out of sight. But they _moved_. Not dead, but dying. Wriggling piles of limbs, low moans of pain. A part of Alayne wanted to stop and observe. To _help_ – even if help meant to give in to their cries for it to end. A part of her (and the part she likely should listen to) told her to get the hells out of the town.

            “Don’t,” Petyr warned. Alayne didn’t, she didn’t – but she was tempted.

            They reached what could only be the heart of the city, though it lacked the same flurry of people and noises as the harbor or market. People were lacking (alive ones, at least). Crabs outnumbered humans, skittering along the stone roads and up along the white stucco buildings. Sunlight bounced off their shells – the buildings looked alive, looking shimmering and moving. Alayne thought it was oddly beautiful.

            The road led them to a building made of the same grey stone, moss and crabs crawling up along its walls. It was taller than the rest, towering over those swaying trees. The fronds seemed to be prying at the building’s walls, probing for passage up and in. A single door sat at ground level, and up above the tallest trees was a ring of narrow windows overlooking the ocean and mountains. It stood shorter than the wall surrounding Gulltown, and far shorter than the mountains reaching into the clouds. Alayne tried to imagine the sort of person who would live there, and why.

            Like at the gates, guards stood watch at that solitary door. Upon approach, it looked nearly as thick as the town’s perimeter wall.

            Like at the gates, the guards merely gave Petyr a glance before motioning for the door to open. As Alayne followed her father (he gave the same identification to these guards), she thought she might have caught a look of pity on the guards’ faces towards her.

            Up and up they spiraled. It was dark, torches lit sparingly, with no windows to provide light or air. Alayne was choking on that cloying staleness. It made the burn in her lungs worse, made her head spin before they had climbed halfway. But there was an unspoken excuse she devised: the crabs. Despite the impenetrable door and the likely non-stop guarding, crabs had still evading noticed and infiltrated the steps. Alayne was careful not to step on them, moving slow, slower than necessary. Petyr didn’t seem to mind, didn’t make any of the comments or looks that he had in their days prior. She wondered if he was glad for her slowness. He had seemed anxious, impatient earlier. And now that they were finally _here_ (wherever here was), Petyr somehow was regretting whatever was awaiting them on the final step. At least, she thought it was regret.

            Alayne heard the voices before they had reached that step. Low, muffled. There were two of them: one a low whisper, countered by one that was sharp retorts. Alayne focused on it, focused on trying to make sense of the garbled echoes instead of focusing on how lightheaded her mind and body were getting.

            She tripped. Petyr caught her, lifting her to rest on the final landing. They made it to the top. Alayne had the sudden urge to run back down the stairs despite her stair victory. Leave whatever secrets lay just ahead. Leave her family and Gulltown and Petyr and just _run_.

            Another door and another set of guards. A nearly-toppled pile of unwashed trays and dishes lay to one side of the door. Lit torches lined the short hallway, glinting off the dishes and weapons slung at the guards’ waists. Narrow windows filled with cemented glass gave a cloudy view over the city.

            “I imagine she’s been expecting me,” Petyr said. His hand was still holding Alayne’s elbow. A gingerly thing, a _fatherly_ thing. Alayne resisted the screaming urge to rip her arm free.

            One guard was scrutinizing her, trying to place her. The other replied to Petyr: “Yes…though not quite so soon. You said you’d be heading to Seven first before coming to Gulltown…?”

            Alayne felt Petyr thinking: his thumb tapping against her, an even beat. In it, she tried to count off everything Petyr had ever told her. And in the spaces between, tried to figure out which were truths and which were lies. “Yes, that was the plan,” Petyr said finally. “But plans change, I’m sure you know.” He gestured to the tower they were in. “She sent some dogs after us, and we had to lose them. And now, we’re here.”

            “Hm,” was all the guard said.

            “This is her?” The other one asked, the one who had been staring at Alayne. At her question, the first seemed to acknowledge Alayne, too. But that second guard had sounded… _disappointed_?

            The grip at her elbow tightened. “Yes, this is _her_. I do hope you understand looks to be deceiving…”

            The second guard took a step towards them. “Look at me,” she said to Alayne. And Alayne felt her head move before her mind told her to. The guards’ eyes – such dark things glistening in the torchlight – focused on Alayne. Took her in. “She tripped on the stair just. She looks like she’s going collapse, or throw up.” A pause, black eyes traveling quickly across her body. “You had said…”

            “Yes?” Petyr snapped, though he kept his voice low.

            That guard slipped her eyes onto him. Alayne saw her hand move closer to her weapon. Felt Petyr’s fingers dig painfully at Alayne’s arm.

            The door opened.

            “It _is_ you!” came a shrill voice. The words echoed painfully in the cramped hallway. The guards weren’t fazed by the voice or the large woman that bounced with ungraceful steps into the hall. The precarious pile of plates tumbled into a roar of metal on stone.

            The woman shoved Alayne aside, sending her colliding with the stone wall. She felt her arms scrape beneath her jacket, felt the fabric catch at a loose nail.

            Alayne watched as the larger lady wrapped herself around Petyr, completely engulfing the man. In between her sloppy kisses and awkward groping, the woman said: “Oh, Petyr, my sweet sweet Petyr. I was so distraught, so afraid you wouldn’t come back.”

            Petyr mirrored the woman’s actions, though with considerably less vigor, trying harder instead to keep himself from cracking in two at her grip. “Of course. I never break promises, my darling.”

            “Ages! Oh, it’s felt like _ages_ since I’ve last seen you.” The woman finally let go of Petyr, keeping him at arms’ length, a ridiculous smile plastered on her. “And my boy, my sweet sweet boy… You said you would bring my child, I _saw_ you bring a child.” Her words were falling out faster than she could speak them. “Where’s Robert? Where is he? Have you brought him like you promised?”

            “Ah, my sweet Lysa,” Petyr kissed at each corner of her mouth. They were almost sickeningly soft things. “I’ve brought something _better_.”

            Petyr motioned towards Alayne with his chin, something almost like pride? Not quite. But not on Lysa. The fiery passion that burned through the woman faded as soon as she caught sight of Alayne. There it was again: _disappointment_. Alayne wanted to absorb herself into the tower’s walls. Or fling herself from it.

            Lysa stared at Alayne with unhidden displeasure, eyes falling from short brown hair down the large clothes that hung across Alayne’s body. Back up, back into the hair, and finally into Alayne’s eyes. Lysa squinted her own. “What’s your name, child?”

            “Alayne,” she said. She chanced a quick glance towards Petyr behind Lysa’s shoulder. He was staring at her, not at the woman he proclaimed his _sweet_ and his _darling_. Somehow, just by saying her name, Alayne felt like she was lying to Lysa, too.

            Petyr approached then, resting his chin at the join of Lysa’s neck. Alayne stared at her aunt’s hair – a gaze that was close enough to her face, but far enough to avoid Lysa’s own. It was auburn, too. Or was. Where Alayne’s had been foliage at the peak of autumn just before leaves furl down to the ground, Lysa’s was the color of dried, flaking blood. There were endless sheaths of it, dry and unkempt, crushed between her throat and Petyr’s cheek.  His mouth hovered improperly beside her ear. “Oh, my sweet,” – a kiss – “My sweet Lysa, I’m sure you two have _met_ before.” Petyr spoke to Lysa in intimate whispers, but his mossy eyes never strayed from Alayne.

            Her aunt was slow to disentangle Petyr from her. Her arms and chest and neck moved sluggishly away – but those eyes concentrated on Alayne, trying desperately to _see_ Alayne. Looking through a fog, squinting to understand _who_ her niece was. Actually was.

            Just as slowly, Lysa approached, running a hand through the short, mousy strands on Alayne’s head. Down along an ear, across her jaw, resting in a loose grip against her chin. The woman’s eyes followed her fingers, tracing the feel and color of Alayne in her mind. And then –blue eyes met Alayne’s. _Like your mother’s_ , Alayne heard someone say to her in her head. Someone from a distant memory.

            “You’re…” Lysa muttered, recognition clearing the shadows of her eyes. The grip at her chin tightened a fraction. Alayne felt her heart – deep in the pit of shadows of her chest, where that beating thing should be – felt it warm to Lysa. Felt the darkest shadows lighten if just a fraction. She wanted a family again, _gods_ how she wanted it so badly. An aunt was a good enough start. _She’s all you have left_ , came that constant voice in her head. Alayne ignored it, taking a small, cautious step towards her aunt. The corners of her mouth turned up into a welcoming smile–

            _Crack_.

            Alayne’s cheek stung. She felt tears welling at her eye, felt them sting like her face. Felt the _betrayal_ sting worse.

            But Lysa wasn’t done. She approached, cornering Alayne in a window alcove. Disappointment was there plainly in her blue eyes. Hatred, and fear, and jealousy, and loathing. All of it a whirlwind of emotions. The woman jabbed a thick finger into Alayne’s shoulder. Torchlight set Lysa’s face into a menagerie of creatures. It flickered angrily. Behind them echoed a shaking, clattering of metal. The guards were moving.

            Alayne could feel her aunt’s spittle on her face as Lysa continued, digging her finger painfully into Alayne. “You should’ve died like the rest of you filthy _beasts_. Dead in the snow. Dead like your _wretched_ mother.” Lysa whirled around, throwing her anger at Petyr. Firelight danced in her hair, reviving the blood into an angry cascade. There was a soft, whining crack to her words. “You said you’d bring my sweet little Robert home. You promised. I _saw_ it, I saw my child, my little Robert…”

            The rest of Lysa’s words were caught against Petyr’s lips, held captive inside his mouth.

            “Oh, you sweet, foolish thing.” Another kiss. Petyr ran his fingers through her hair, down, down, resting at the small of Lysa’s back. “I did promise I’d bring a child to you, my darling.” Another kiss, long and sweet. Torchlight sent the grey at his temples into an angry thing, too, but a different sort of anger. “I did bring you a child, my sweet Lysa.” Petyr’s eyes flickered to Alayne’s, holding her gaze for several seconds. “Mine.”

            That screeching, clattering of metal slowed into a quiet rumble. The angry flickering of torches, too. Petyr held Alayne’s gaze, concern and mirth written there, before sinking his hands into Lysa’s hair and waist. Before placing another long, possessive kiss against her aunt’s lips.

            Torchlight exploded. Plates flew against the walls. There were cries of confusion.

            Alayne was running down the stairs, sprinting down them. She twisted her ankle a few steps down. Her lungs were burning. But didn’t care. Down, down, down. This tower, that hallway – everything was too cramped, too breathless. She needed air, she needed room to breathe. Out – she needed out.

            Her body and head pounded, worse than the way up, and worse than the endless miles hiking towards Duskendale. Still, down she flew. Her ankle throbbed. Her fingers scraped against the rough wall. Her cheek stung.

            She wanted it all gone.

            Torches flickered as Alayne ran past them. Some sputtered out. She was nearing the bottom, she was sure. Faint sounds of life outside these unforgiving walls. Amongst it all she thought she heard the whispered clacking of crabs. She knew she stepped on one or two, felt them beneath her boots.

            When the door was in sight, Alayne worried how she’d get out. Pry the door open until her fingers with broken and bloody? Pound and scream against the heavy metal and hope she wouldn’t suffocate from the air and shadows and weight crushing her inside and out?

            She didn’t have to. A person – a man – around her age walked through the heavy door just as Alayne flew down the final step. She saw only sun-kissed skin and sandy hair, might have mumbled a _sorry_ , before Alayne charged past him and out onto the streets. The guards might have been yelling at her too, but Alayne couldn’t hear it over the pounding in her head. Her heart, that grey shadow – all of it was an unintelligible roar.

            She wanted to scream.

            Alayne ran and ran. There were voices and noises – they all faded into a deafening thing, almost as loud as the roar inside her head. Someone tried to grab her to stop, but she broke free. On and on and on she ran. Alayne didn’t know where she was going, or how she was going to get out. She might be able to squeeze through the perimeter gate. Catch the guards unawares. Slip through the winding throngs of people. Wait out capture before climbing aboard a ship, any ship, and set sail far away.

            She wanted to scream. To cry. To disappear.

            Her legs finally gave up on her.

            Alayne stumbled to the ground. Her throat and lungs were dry and coarse and burning. Every muscle in her body ached. There was a tremor to her movements – from the ache, or from the need to heave up that cloying darkness inside her. Alayne wanted everything gone. Everything to stop.

            “Are you okay?”

            Alayne spun around. She tried frantically to wipe the tears away, to wash the red from her eyes. But it was no use – the girl before her had to have been completely blind and deaf not to have seen the mess that Alayne was, inside and out. Alayne just wished she could name it.

            “I’m…fine…” she said, finally, pushing leftover tears back. Gods, what she would do to disappear. She looked around, feigning having to look at this girl directly – Alayne didn’t recognize _where_ her legs had taken her. Not the docks. There wasn’t a single ship in sight. White buildings surrounded her. Cobbled stones dug into her legs and hands.          

            “Did she take someone, too?” The girl said, walking towards Alayne. Alayne wanted to yell _stop_ , but she couldn’t find the word. She wasn’t sure if she wanted the girl to leave and pretend like Alayne wasn’t a complete mess – or if she wanted the girl to hold her and tell her it was going to be okay. Sunlight caught the girl’s chestnut curls, soft, flowy things tied back in a ponytail. Alayne couldn’t help but think how brown hair fit this girl, and how brown hair was nothing but a _lie_ for her.

            “For me it was my dad,” the girl continued, stopping a few steps shy of Alayne. She was staring behind Alayne. A salty breeze blew past them. She smiled at Alayne, and Alayne could feel the sadness in the gesture. “I’m Myranda, by the way.” She  pointed past Alayne. “That one was him.”

            Alayne turned, and noticed them. Again.

            She had made it to the edge of the city, that impenetrable wall barely a hundred feet from where Alayne slumped on the street. Beyond it stood those mountains.

            But against the wall were people. So many people, piled one on top of another in a jumbled mess of limbs. There was no way to tell which arm or leg or head belonged to which person. That was, assuming the bodies were still intact (and they _were_ bodies – no deathly moans came from this pile to _end it_ ). They nearly reached the top of the wall. Alayne imagined she could climb it out of Gulltown, climb it out into safety. But the thought alone of feeling their bodies squish and explode beneath her boots and hands kept Alayne from trying it out.

            Petyr had warned her not to get too close. Not to investigate the plague of dead bodies littering the back streets of Gulltown. And now Alayne knew why.

            All of them – even with faces bleached from the sun or pecked at by crabs and birds, or even with bones and skin shattered and torn- they all looked like Petyr. Different eye colors, yes, and skin colors and hair - but the face was uncanny. It was unsettling.

            “What…” Alayne managed. Her head was dizzy, her stomach felt like emptying itself.

            “Oh, didn’t you know?” Myranda said with a quizzical look. There was a bit of a war on her face – to reveal whatever _it_ was, or to let Alayne figure it out on her own. Myranda bit at her tongue behind her mouth, lips turned into a half-smile. Eventually, that need to divulge _it_ overtook the girl, her words an excited whisper. “Lysa, that crazy bitch up in the tower? She’s been experimenting with people, on people. Never thought she would be crazy enough to take my dad, but…” Sadness took over Myranda for a second before she willed it away. “Anyway, she’s always been a lot crazy even before this, before she moved us all here from the Eyrie. That isn’t really the worst of it, though.” She crouched beside Alayne, an arm’s length separating them. “Word is, a year or two ago she murdered her own family.”

            A field of white snow. Splattered in red. A wolf’s howl echoing in the distance – cut short.

            Myranda continued: “She had help, of course. Someone as mental as her couldn’t have done it _and_ get away with it, even with all the shit going on down in King’s Landing and across the country. But like, if she’s done that, makes you wonder how bad the shit is everywhere else.”

            Alayne stared – at the wall littered with bodies, at this strange girl who seemed so unperturbed by it all. Alayne didn’t move, wasn’t sure if she could. She could hear and feel her heart pounding in her head. It hurt. It almost drowned out Myranda’s words.

            “At least, that’s what they say. No one really knows who killed them, but honestly? I wouldn’t put it past that crazy bitch. Claims she can see things. Claims these experiments are for the greater good. And gods know what other shit she’s done. But who knows…”

            Myranda toyed with her hair, braiding and unbraiding in the curls. Her gaze switched between Alayne and the field of bodies hidden in the shadows of unused buildings.

            Alayne touched at her cheek, the biting sting of her aunt’s hand gone. All Alayne could feel now was this new weight of what Myranda had said. If it was true – and Alayne honestly had no way of knowing if it was – it sat _just_ uncomfortably enough that she knew it must have been.

            If Lysa did kill her family, then Alayne truly was all alone.

           And there wasn't a home left for Alayne. Not anywhere.


End file.
